Ice on the Rhine
by IamInferior
Summary: Napoleon marches on, nations trembling in his wake. The flames of revolution burn bright, and the common folk of Europe flock to the ideals of nationalism and liberalism like moths to a flame. Discord undermines the Holy Roman Empire, and in secret clubs across Germany, people discuss Corona, Austria, and unification. Maestro, choose your instrument, and let the music play.
1. Prologue: A Paper

Riley Aslaugssen

GERH122

Professor Theodore Brauning

9 December 2013

German History 122: Corona, Arendelle, and the North German Federation Midterm Paper 1

"The forces of nature and the powers of magic have always served the Norse well. That is why your Christian men will always falter." - Torg Shincracker, shortly before his head was chopped off

Torg was not necessarily wrong, though. Archaeological evidence suggests that the Norse were indeed blessed with mystic powers, allowing to conquer and raid other peoples, and even drive their boats to the Americas. Some myths trace these powers to the Aesir and Vanir. The one most relevant to German history is the Scylding tale.

The Scyldings, a legendary Danish royal dynasty are descended from Sceaf, who washed ashore at Scania. They are allegedly descended from Woden/Odin, and Skadi eventually married and had much issue with Odin, and it's not inconceivable that some of that divine blood wormed its way into a Danish noble house. When Elsa's ancestors took over, they would've likely married into local families for legitimacy, in the process acquiring some of that now very dilute divine blood. For what's it's worth, the Rurikids allegedly descend from the Scyldings, and so the icy conquest of Russia may have been a similar event.

The story begins in the early 1520s with the dissolution of the Kalmar Union. The rebels, heartened by strings of crushing victories, and looking back to Magnus Eriksson, who was King of Sweden and Norway, decide that Norway is the natural territory of Sweden. The war drags on a few years more, ending with the crowning of Gustav Vasa as King of Sweden-Norway. Denmark stood alone.

The troubles did not end there. In 1533, an uprising occurred in Denmark seeking the return of Christian II. The Holy Roman Emperor, hoping to aid the cause of his sister, who was Christian's wife (although she grew very sick after the Swedish revolt, she barely survived), pledged his assistance. Although successful at first, the war does not end quickly as hoped, as Gustav I intervenes on the side of Danish loyalists. It soon becomes a bloody quagmire, but Christian II, who hoped to reform the Danish monarchy towards absolutism, is all too eager to press it further. Finally, Charles V, disgusted with the human cost of the affair, Christian's desire for an absolute crown, and the money it is costing, promised to divide Denmark into its three traditional duchies and deny Christian the absolute crown he had hoped for. When Sweden sued for peace, Christian became King of Sjaelland, not King of Denmark, a kingdom that would heretoafter be referred to as the Southern Isles.

A loyal and successful commander from a minor house is granted Jutland. In one of the battles, the captured enemy nobles spat at him and called him a weasel. In response, he said, "Weasel I may be, but do you see all the men behind me? If I am a weasel, I am duke of an entire weasel town." Thus, Jutland would be jokingly (and eventually seriously) referred to by the Germans as Weaseltown. Aaron Hohenzollern, hailing from a cadet branch of the family, lands in Bergen, erecting a fortress nearby to defend it. After defeating the Swedish forces sent to reclaim it, they agree to cede Hordaland, Rogaland, and much of Ostlandet in the peace treaty, which becomes the new Grand Duchy of Hordaland. A town grows near the castle, called Aaron's Dale, and eventually merges with metropolitan Bergen. When the time comes to assume royal dignity, the kingdom is not named Hordaland, but Arendelle, after the faithful castle.

Almost a hundred years later, tensions were mounting in the Holy Roman Empire between the Protestant north and Catholic south. It is no surprise, then, that war breaks out when Emperor Matthias tries to name his successor. The Bohemians rebel, and almost immediately, the Hohenzollerns of Prussia and Arendelle join them, seeking to take more independence and power from Austria. They lead a coalition of other German states in the north, including the Southern Isles and Weselton.

It goes disastrously.

Although the rebels win some battles at first, the ability of the Emperor to draw upon Spanish allies soon grinds the rebels down. The Prussian Hohenzollerns are forced from the ancestral home, then forced from Germany, then forced from even their fortifications in Prussia, fleeing to a small fishing town named Corona. Desperate, the rebels send envoys throughout Europe. They hope to secure Swedish aid, but Sweden declines. Instead, help comes from an unlikely source-the Ottomans. The Turks open up a second front near Hungary, which eats up enough Imperial troops to allow the rebels to halt the advance in the north. But the war dragged on. Isolated from the rest of Germany, the northern states and former Danish kingdoms began to form tight-knit relations with each other, and the Prussian Hohenzollerns adopted more of the mannerisms and architecture of their Polish hosts. The Bohemians, cut off from both their northern allies and their Ottoman supporters, are brought back into line. But the war does not end, the northerners stubbornly holding out. Finally, their prayers are answered in 1635, with French intervention. This would begin a long, powerful, and enduring friendship between the northern German kings and France, along which would be exchanged goods, culture, and military aid.

Thus the Holy Roman Empire became more and more divided between the growing strength and wealth of Hohenzollern Corona and its protestant allies and Austria. The Greater German question would not be over Austria, but over Corona, with its subtly different culture and influence over northern German and Danish states that no longer quite belonged fully in a united German nation, but did not belong anywhere else either.

Grade: C+

Although you did an admirable job summarizing the history, you failed to address the prompt fully. You need to analyze explicitly how these events led to the formation of the North German Federation. Furthermore, Wikipedia is not considered a good source for this class. It's a good start though, and you could definitely do something better. Remember this is only 15% of your grade.

* * *

**Author Notes:** Cover image by maddigonzalez on tumblr.


	2. A Storm blows over Europe

For the first time in forever, Elsa's desk was a cluttered mess. Letters piled up like a snowdrift, an practical sea of white. Letters, from nations all over Europe. Letters in French, in German, in English, in Norwegian, in Polish, in Danish, in Spanish. The languages weren't the problem though. Elsa had always been a studious girl. Her Danish and Norwegian were both perfect, her German almost as good. Her French and Polish were not quite at native levels, but certainly still fluent. She was not as adept at the others, but still, there were aides and translators for that. The languages weren't the problem. The contents of the letters were. The howl of the snowstorm whipped against the window. It had been a cold December.

"To the Most" "Glorious" "Beautiful" "Powerful" "Gracious" "Dangerous" "Royal Majesty" "Queen Elsa" "The Snow Queen" "Britain" "Austria" "Corona" "Saxony" "Bavaria" "Sweden" "beseeches to join us in spreading liberty, egalite, and fraternity" "humbly asks that you not interfere" "demands your neutrality" "that you not provide any support, moral, material, or military to the revolutionaries" "that you join in our crusade against the king-slaying menace" "desires an answer to the 'French and Austrian' question". They could do so much. They could ruin the cause of monarchy. They could deliver a decisive victory to France. Elsa could deliver a decisive victory to France.

Anna had been ecstatic when the French emissary first arrived, early that December. The people had been too. The enemies of France were gathering again, and this was France's hour of need. It was, at last, time to repay the aid given two hundred years ago. Anna ran to the armory (after stopping at the gallery to talk to one of the paintings, it was an odd habit that Elsa had never understood), and returned atop Sven, her mighty steed, in an antique Spanish cuirass three sizes too big, wearing the spic-and-span standard uniform and pickelhaube, and sporting some majestic Hussar wings gifted from Corona. The sight of it almost made Elsa lose control, but she had held it in. It was best not to be undignified in front of foreign dignitaries. Later that night, she and Anna shared a well-aged bottle of cognac from the cellars and laughed into the night. She wasn't laughing now. Arendelle was surrounded on all sides by Sweden-Norway, and her excuses were wearing thin. Officially, Arendelle was neutral. But the sympathies of the Arendelle people and of Princess Anna were well-known. Every morning posters went up calling for men to join the fight against the Third Coalition, denouncing the crimes of perfidious Albion and the oriental despots of Austria. Every day she sent guards to take them down, but they would always return, like clockwork, by the time dawn broke again. What's worse, men left the country on every ship, axes and satchels in tow. They didn't ever give their real purpose to the captains, but everyone knew. There were so many Coronan and Arendellan men in the 75th Fusiliers that American correspondents were calling it a foreign legion. Her own pickelhaube and military uniform sat in the corner, gleaming in the light of the oil lamp.

And the rumors, they spread too. Sweden-Norway had always been clamping at the bit, looking for any excuse to invade Arendelle and reclaim its lost land. Now people were saying that Arendellans went to France with the blessing of the crown, that their neutrality was a sham. When she told Anna, Anna had tried to comfort her. She conjured fantastical stories of ice magic stopping armies in their tracks, of unbreakable walls and hordes of snow golems smashing against enemy lines. Invaders impaled on seas of ice spikes, frozen hearts and blizzards too thick to march through. But Elsa knew that she couldn't be everywhere at once, and where she wasn't, the army would falter. She had tried to modernize it as best she could, but so much of the equipment was still outdated, some of it even Renaissance and Medieval. She had looked over old budgets, noting with wry disappointment that funds earmarked for new weapons in her youth had actually been spent hiding her powers. Bribes, assassins, palace repairs... but no rifles, no cannon, no frigates. If the Swedes couldn't defeat her in pitched combat, they'd simply siege Arendelle until the people starved. If it came to them storming the castle, the defenses wouldn't hold. The gates might've kept curious eyes out, but they couldn't stop 12-pounder guns. Bergenhus stood like a stone giant over the bay, cold and unflinching, but it was an old one, and in its frail age would not stop determined Swedish bombardment. Worst of all, their neutrality might be a sham, at least at the dynastic level. Across the sea, Coronan soldiers performed constant drills. They were quickly gaining a reputation as well-trained elite soldiers. Elsa knew that only concern for her well-being stayed Rapunzel's hand now. The Coronan war machine was ready to challenge Habsburg dominance. All across the country, men invoked the memory of the Thirty Years' War. French blood had been spilt to save Dane and German, now it was time to repay the blood debt.

She didn't even know if she could stay home. Anna was all for intervention, but that might change if she could read the letters. The letters from Napoleon wanted Elsa to join him on the front, fighting alongside the French army. She could be the deciding factor. In Egypt, men had died of heat exhaustion. Men died marching towards enemy batteries, torn apart by shrapnel. An icy breeze would ward away the heat. Snow golems would guard men from cannon. It could be the difference between a free Europe and a Europe that continued to suffer under tyranny. The letters, hopeful, visionary, polite, but also urgent, firm, and threatening. If Elsa did not fight with France, then Napoleon could not guarantee the safety of Arendelle, or promise any aid.

There were more than a hundred drafts and proposals torn up or discarded in the waste bin. All in Elsa's own writing, written three times, in Norwegian, then Danish, then German, as was customary. None of them had received the royal wax seal. Elsa walked to the window. She could see the faint sparks of the gas lamps of Bergen through the storm. The gas was limited-it was imported. The food was limited-only so much in the granary. And the people, they were all so fragile. Years of Hohenzollern rule had altered their culture to be less Norwegian and more Danish and German. When the soldiers had taken Stockholm in 1520, they had killed almost a hundred. Cities had been sacked following many sieges throughout history. The Arendellans were more foreign than the Danes of the 1500s had been. Her bishops also reported gossip about a new band of heretics that almost worshipped her, and would die before surrendering the city. An old song lept to Elsa's lips, unbidden. In a voice that was barely more than a whispering wind, she sang.

"There's so much fear. You're not safe here."

Outside, the storm raged on.


	3. A Shitposter's Story

"Coronaball cannot into space."

Fuckers. Shit-fucking asstards. They didn't understand. Couldn't see. He'd show them.

"Coronan troops were the finest of the 19th century. Their Kingdom Guards were trained in German, British, and Polish techniques, and the equipment was state of the art. Coronan soldiers were worth ten men from any other country."

He posted a picture of Rapunzel standing next to a young Bismarck. Dat short hair. Dat North German Federation. The Kaiserin was his waifu. It was truly a blessing that he could type with one hand.

corona  
war

Corona got its ass kicked in both world wars. USA USA USA USA.

hussars  
useful  
not cannon fodder for Italian tanks

corona  
relevant

corona  
german

implying coronan slavs are white

He considered dumping his stat blocks. Decided against it. They'd all laugh. Riley, that fucker. Riley is butthurt again. Riley was a shit name. Needed a better one. One like his ancestors. Fucking Ameriboo parents. Needed a rebuttal, still. Can't let them win.

"Elsa could probably still crush modern armies with her ice magic."

implying Arendelle is Corona  
implying Coronan plains niggers have internet  
implying you don't live in a hovel

He checked the clock. Time, set perfectly. Desk, neat and clean. Ah, ordnung. Had to get to work now. When he got back, he'd show the Brits what banter meant. This would be the day. Could feel it.

He was five minutes early to lecture. Same as always. So was everyone else. You could set your clock by it. Well, maybe you couldn't. Wasn't quite that precise. It was pretty good though. Not even gommunism :DDDD could suppress it. He took his seat, E4. Moments later, a greasy unkempt blob sat next to him. He was wearing a reddit shirt. Didn't have a fedora, but used to. An idiot. Repulsive. Always had to bum notes off him instead of writing his own. Meme-spouter. He paused. Still his only friend.

The lecture began. Usually they were pretty good, but he knew this one would be shit. Libtard propaganda, all of it. He only took this class because it was required and he liked the professor.

"Today we touch upon a shameful part of Coronan history. The Second World War" most glorious part "and more specifically, the human costs it inflicted" into the trash it goes "the tragedy of the Balkan genocide." The Balkans were trash anyways. Serbian genocide best day of my life.

"Like all events in history, it is best understood coming from the past. Coronan resentment of Austria has deep roots, dating back to the Reformation. But, with the rise of nationalism, it became unpopular to blame the trouble from Austria on the Austrians themselves, as they were German as well. So instead, their Balkan subjects, especially the Hungarians, were blamed." Muh four million. Why did the German burn the Balkslime? Because he was hungry. Ha. Ha. "-schluss was followed by the rounding up of Balkan subjects, who were then sent to camps..."

There was someone behind him. He turned around. It was a girl.

"And eventually this led to the division of Germany into North Germany and South Germany following the conclusion of the war..."

She had platinum blonde hair and deep blue eyes, a button nose, a small, meek smile, and a light blue dress. She took the seat on the other side of him, and began to babble in a language he only faintly recognized as Norwegian. After nearly a minute, she stopped, blushed, looked down at her feet, then back at him. When she began to talk again, it was in his familiar German.

"Umm. Hello. My name is Ingrid. I am from the HOSAR."

"Uhhhh..."

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Errr, again. Wait, I apologized in Norwegian before, didn't I? The HOSAR is the Hordaland-Ostlandet Semi-Autonomous Region. You... uhhh... might know it better as Arendelle. The name sounds similar to the word for leg-hose, you see, so it sort of... is funny, comparing the communist rule to being pants. I'm rambling again, aren't I?"

"Not at all, I always love to learn about other countries and their history. It's fascinating."  
Smooth.

"Really? Because I love history too! That's why I'm taking this class. Not because I have to, I'm foreign exchange student, we have different requirements. It's always so interesting to me, since we lost so much of it in the Cultural Revolution."

"Yeah, I like history too. I really like imagining how things could've gone differently, if battles went other ways..." If the Third Reich had won.

"Do... do you mind we form a study group?"

"Huh? Oh, of course not."

"Yes, I need the help, especially since I missed the first two lectures. If I fail my classes they take away my scholarship, and I can't afford the tuition on my own. There was a rumor that my family was related to some old Norwegian nobility, so they took away everything we had in the Cultural Revolution."

"Oh... well... I'd be more than happy to help."

She smiled at him. Perhaps he wouldn't be shitposting on /int/ tonight after all.


	4. An American in Queen Elsa's Court

Dear Diary,

An American in Queen Elsa's Court. Has a certain ring to it, doesn't it? Mom and Pop sure would be proud of me now (Note: If you're reading this following my untimely death, Mom and Pop, please burn it. I know myself too well.) I really don't know why they picked me, though. I don't speak a lick of Norwegian, Danish, or German, and my personality, I've been told, will remind them of the stereotypical yank. Maybe they'll like that. I do have a translator, but there's a problem with that. He's named Sven, and so's the court reindeer (who the hell keeps a court reindeer?). When I saw the palace for the first time, my jaw dropped. The structure was based off 1530s fortifications, with later styles of architecture layered on, and topped off with intricate formations of ice, both clear and opaque, coming in all sorts of colors and shapes. It really would've been better if Jefferson had sent a poet. Or maybe some rock salt. The place is beautiful, but I keep slipping and falling on my face, and I'm wrapped up thicker than a grizzly pelt, it's so cold. Plus, any time I walk alone, I can't understand anyone, and if I take Sven, it confuses them.

I love my job.

* * *

Dear Diary,

Titles were just made to be absurd, weren't they? If Arendelle and Norway were considered one, then Arendelle would hold much of the land, most of the population, and a great deal of the trade. But Queen Elsa can't call herself Queen of Norway because that's a title held by the Swedes, even though her claim would be de facto stronger. If she tried to claim it, it would be a major diplomatic insult to Sweden and almost certainly lead to war. Instead, she's Queen of Arendelle-a country made up just to give the Arendellan Hohenzollerns royal dignity. It's even named after their ancestral home. So they just made up a country to make themselves more important in the matters of court. But the farce doesn't stop there. When Elsa ascended to the throne, Princess Anna was created Duchess of Ostlandet. Furthermore, her house name, Hohenzollern, can also be used as a surname. So she's Lady Hohenzollern, but you're not supposed to call her that, especially considering that Elsa would also be a Lady Hohenzollern, as would Queen Rapunzel, instead referring to her formally as Duchess Ostlandet, which I can't even pronounce. But she insists on being called Anna, or at most, Princess Anna, an offer I'm willing to take, even if that might be a faux pas.

And then there's Duke Weselton (he's quite good at poker, at it turns out. Had to borrow some cash from Sven. Sven the man, not the reindeer. Reindeer don't have money), who, despite "only" being a Duke, is just as independent as Queen Elsa. And don't get me started on the Emperor. The Emperor in Austria is Arendelle's nominal master, but Arendelle, Corona, and other north German states constantly band together to fight against Austria. If anything, Corona is the real Emperor of the north, but despite this, Rapunzel is only a "queen". Although, I hear word that the Junkers (a stupid name for a political faction, by the way. Federalists and Democratic-Republicans are much better ones) are trying to elevate Rapunzel to the rank of Empress over a united Greater Germany. They don't have a strong leader yet, but at the very least such a change would be more rational. After my briefing, I went to relax with Kristoff and Sven, and fed Sven carrots (the deer, not the man), and he seemed to like that. Kristoff (who is a Prince, but not actually of royal blood, being a Prince by marriage, which is ridiculous) seemed to like that too. Maybe reindeer are better than people.

* * *

Dear Diary,

The more time I spend here, the more I'm certain that monarchy is one giant prank played on the peasantry. This morning, in the middle of a meeting of state, both the Queen and Princess burst out into song. And, unfortunately for me, my translator joined them. So it was me, sitting uncomfortably in my chair, as everyone around me sang in Norwegian. It was much, much worse than being left out of a conversation. Quite frankly, it was the most awkward moment of my life. The absurdity didn't end there. Queen Rapunzel came to Arendelle as part of a personal envoy from Corona. This, of course, necessitated a crier to read out her titles. Here comes Rapunzel, by the Grace of God Queen Regnant of Corona, Defender of the Protestant Faith, Grand Princess of Greater Poland, Duchess of Prussia, Duchess of Cleves, Margrave of Brandenburg, Elector of the Holy Roman Empire, Count of Pomeralia, Count of Pomerania, Protector of Aland, and Guardian of the North German States, Baron of Poznan, Grand Officer of the Legion of Honor of the French Empire, Field Marshal First Class of the Coronan Army, and Grandmaster of the Order of the Iron Cross. There is a certain point where solemnity becomes satire. Halfway through, both Anna and Rapunzel struggled to hold back giggles. Queen Elsa was, as always, austere. Afterwards, they engaged in a mixture of socializing, games, and negotiation. So odd that the family reunion also serves as a matter of national importance. Still, the royal family is remarkably pleasant. I still am completely unable to understand what Anna says when she speaks to me in Norwegian, but the tone is friendly, and both she and Kristoff have mannerisms that could melt any heart. They have invited me to dinner tonight, though the fare (sandwiches) they mentioned seems to be another one of those royal jokes. I was always under the impression nobles ate very ornate meals.

* * *

Dear Diary,

I had thought the rumors of Elsa being an ice witch were just that, rumors. Slander, really. Sure, the palace was filled with ice, but they had a royal icemaster. If she could just create ice, why have an icemaster? That's silly (Note: very silly)! Even sillier was when Kristoff mentioned that Rapunzel was magic as well, and that George Washington (bless him), was a great and powerful wizard. It was clearly a joke around these parts, something not to be taken seriously. Best as I could figure, the rumors started from a disgruntled nobleman from the Southern Isles named Hans. He escaped from the dungeons last year and found refuge amongst the conversative powers. I had assumed that the rumors were just an attempt to slander the queen by portraying her as some sort of sorceress. After all, both Corona and Arendelle were a perpetual thorn in Austria's side, and Arendelle was more constitutional, to contrast with the more absolute rule of Austria. But today gave me reason to doubt that. It hadn't been a good day. First of all, another round of Hans' propaganda was brought to the Queen's attention. Next, news came that Sweden had leased one of their towns as a naval resupply for Britain. Finally, the French emissary pressed his point aggressively. The time had come for Arendelle to pick sides, it could remain neutral no longer. At that moment, the air grew still and cold. A chill ran down my spine. Luckily, the Frenchman backed down. But still, it makes me wonder.

* * *

Dear Diary,

Lutefisk has to be some of the most disgusting food I've ever had. Is it a jelly, is it fish, or is it some ungodly abomination in between (It's the third.)? The smell was repugnant, and the texture slimy and gooey, almost like it was still alive (though I'm sure nothing could survive the manufacturing of lutefisk). I tried to choke it down, as a matter of manners, but Anna noticed me struggling to finish. To my surprise, not only did I not have to finish, but she personally prepared a different dish for me, a dish made of crisp fried herring and onions wrapped up in flatbread. It was delicious. I really did not deserve such a kindness. And this morning, my beer was warm. To my great honor, the Queen personally chilled it-and not with any normal ice I've seen before. She truly is magic. But it's a good sort of a magic, I think. Not some sorcerer-queen crushing the peasants, but a kind woman who is willing to help with her powers, and use them for aid great and small. Being born a king isn't a crime anymore than being born low-case in India is. Something to think about.

* * *

Dear Diary,

America is truly honored. The queen herself made an ice sculpture of President Jefferson shaking hands with Columbia to show the friendship between our countries. It will be transported by the fastest clippers available, and well-refrigerated. It is a marvel. She is a marvel. Such kindness, such grace, such power vested in one woman. Her sister, the Princess, and Kristoff, the Prince, have been the greatest hosts anyone could ask for. Despite our cultural and linguistic differences, they've bent over backwards to accommodate me. No, more than that. If social contortion and physical contortion were of a kind, they'd all be Indian gurus. I hope that one day America is able to repay such a gesture.

* * *

Dear Diary,

Went out with Anna and Kristoff again. We played a game that Sven (still the man, not the reindeer) translated as Wolf-Smack. Evidently they had once been chased by wolves, and now they've made a game of it. Kristoff threw a thing vaguely resembling a wolf, and Anna attempted to smack it with a guitar-shaped bat. She missed, many times, but once she hit it, she rode a horse around the field, circling several white squares. It quite reminded me of a bysball, and I indeed said that, but apparently this is better. For one thing, it's mounted, and for another, the ball is shaped like a wolf. A small wolf. Tiny wolf. Still a wolf. One of the players was some sort of snow gremlin, and I had thought him to be a snowman at first. By now I've learned to take such things in stride. Later, we met some of Her Serene Highness's other friends in a tavern, and I was shocked to learn that Anna made friends with commoners as well (though, since she married one, I suppose I shouldn't have been that shocked). One of them tried to sell me a bizarre sun balm. It actually works very well. Monarchy may be a prank played on peasants by nobles, but Arendelle is no normal monarchy. In other news, an Arendellan ship was lost this week near the Barbary Coast. Those pirates are really quite a problem.

* * *

Dear Diary,

The Hohenzollerns have been gracious hosts, going far beyond even the courtesies demanded by diplomacy. Something has to be done for them. Their situation is precarious beyond belief. I know now that the rumors about Elsa are true. But at the same time, they mean nothing. Queen Elsa has shown herself to be nothing but noble, and she has always worked towards the benefit of Arendelle. And the Princess's family is charming. Kristoff is a commoner, making it a morganatic marriage, but in spite of this, Elsa still blessed the marriage. I think, that despite being a monarchy, Arendelle is a country that understands the spirit of what we're doing in the US. What other monarchy would allow such an unequal marriage? What other family would take a foreign dignitary into their home and treat them as family? These people need to be helped. Something needs to be done for them, and I know exactly what.

* * *

FROM: American Legation of Arendelle

TO: President Thomas Jefferson

HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL FOR PRESIDENTS' EYES ONLY

Re: Elsa. Affairs of state going very well. Going to to many dinners with Princess/Kris family now, working out details of plan. Frenchman comes too. Possibility of great diplomatic coup. Recommend discussing expansion of US with congress/justices/etc. Vision-see US from sea to sea. Napoleon wanting Arendelle's aid, Arendelle needs security, we need land, Napoleon willing to sell Louisiana. Plan is to thread the needle, sending ships to Barbary Coast first ostensibly to put down piracy. Marines will then sail north quickly, move to defend Arendelle. Our forces protect Arendelle, Queen will advance with Napoleonic armies with personal guard, help to defeat Coalitions. Know prez is great admirer of French Rev. and Napoleon. Possibility to earn an ally for the rest of our days while doing the best for our country. Need response ASAP. If nothing else heard from me, assume termination by assassins of Austria/Sweden/Britain/others. Press gangs, etc, indicate Britain knows our intent, wants to put us down first. Must act fast.

We'll call it the Louisiana Purchase.


	5. Bergen: Intermission

It is quiet in Bergen. Birds chirp cheerfully, but the town itself is silent. The sun creeps slowly upward, burning away the gray mist hanging overhead. Children lie in bed, still asleep, while fathers get up, still groggy eyed, preparing to finish the day's work. A mouse scurries through the castle pantry, stealing away scraps of food. These little bits will not be noticed, nor will be they be missed. In Bergen Cathedral, the cardinal scribbles away. He has reams of parchment in the back room, but he still takes care not to make mistakes. Every word is precious, every drop of ink valuable. When all else leaves, knowledge can be worth more than gold. He has to prepare. His is an important position, overseeing the Diocese of Bjorgvin. The people of Arendelle are his flock, and he will shepherd them well.

In the royal bedroom, Elsa sleeps. Wisps of snow speckle her hair, and when she tosses and turns, for the briefest of instants you can see the sparkle of snowflakes. After a night of intense negotiations, she has just signed a treaty that will change the course of the 19th century. In it, the Coalition of the Rhine was born, the Rhine being chosen to signify the unity between Germany and France. Now the Third Coalition has, at last, met a rival equal to it in size. The destinies of Corona, Arendelle, and the French Empire now intertwine, and the storm begins in earnest.

There is no one in the streets of Bergen, large and wealthy as it is. But, if one were to walk then, one might feel a certain malaise. Squint, and the image appears. A horse, white as snow and pale as ice. Listen, and the noise grows. The whizzing of a thousand arrows falling to earth, the shattering of bones and the tearing of flesh. Kneel, and the truth appears. A crown, high above the world. A crown, ethereal and mighty beyond comprehension. It is not the end of the world, but it is the end of theirs.

The Ancient Regime is dead.

The bell tower tolls. The Year Eighteen Hundred and Four of Our Lord has begun.


	6. Beat of the Drums and Fife

_"My friend, any hussar that does not die by thirty is a blackguard." - Antoine Charles Louis de Lasalle_

The docks of Bergen buzzed with activity. On one hand, a giant merchant ship had docked, and was offloading hundreds of crates. Unbeknownst to all but a select few, the crates were loaded with armaments and supplies to outlast a siege, and the merchants were really United States marines. It was the first of many ships that would be pulling into the harbor, and they had the task of assembling coastal batteries and preparing Arendelle's defenses. During the night, some of them had already gone up to the mountains to dig and prepare defensive positions.

On the other, there was a Coronan warship, preparing to send Queen Elsa abroad. It was manned by the finest sailors Corona had to offer, and it bristled with guns. The charts had been carefully consulted, and everything laid into place for the precious cargo it was about to take on. Corona knew the unfortunate fate of the late King and Queen, and it wanted to make sure the new Queen had nothing to fear from the sea.

Kristoff, Sven, and Elsa were waiting at one of the piers.

"So this is it, huh? The Snow Queen finally leaves her icy palace."

Elsa, didn't respond. Her eyes scanned the area, looking for any sign of Anna. It was odd that she wouldn't show up at her departure. Kristoff coughed.

"If you're wondering..."

"Anna said she had a surprise for you!" said Sven.

"A surprise?"

Suddenly, a glimmer appeared off in the distance. It grew larger and larger, to the sound of frantic hoofbeats. A horseman drew closer and closer, lance in hand, sabre at side, and carbine on back. As the figure neared, Elsa made out the face underneath the spiked helmet. It was Anna.

"Anna?"

"Hey Elsa! Look, I have a sur-"

The horse charged onto the dock, and Anna attempted to bring it to a stop, but the momentum was so great that she almost pitched forward off her horse, her helmet falling forward and covering her face. Faces peered out of windows and people ran to the docks, attracted by the noise.

"Prise! Whoops. Colonel Anna Hohenzollern of the 3rd Gdynian Hussars reporting for duty!"

"Anna!"

"Look, Elsa, I have a warhorse!"

"You're not even handling that lance right."

"Well normally I'm supposed to stop by hitting someone with the lance using the speed of my horse."

"Do you even know how to ride a warhorse?"

Anna's grin, already wide, spread ear-to-ear.

"Actually, I do. Remember all those games of Wolf-Smack? I've been practicing my riding and coordination. I asked for an officer's comission when Rapunzel came over too. For once I've got everything planned out. Aren't you excited? I get to go with you, and see France, real France for the first time ever! It'll be like the sisters vacation we never had."

"Anna, you can't go with me."

"What?"

"Someone has to watch the kingdom, someone has to make sure the regency council does their job, someone... needs to be there if I don't make it back."

"Elsa, you can't go through this alone. Please. I can be useful as more than just a spare. I see you working through the night day after day, putting the burden of the whole kingdom on your shoulders. This once, I have the chance to help you."

"It's far, far too dangerous in the war, and I need someone I can trust on the regency cou-"

"Rapunzel can handle the affairs of state while we're gone, and I wouldn't make a good regent anyways. I never could study as hard as you. Elsa. All my life I've been looking at the paintings in the gallery. They were like dreams to me. I looked up to Joan. Love may not have been as glamorous as the paintings were, but I know, deep in my heart, that one of those dreams has to be true. Elsa, I can be useful. There are assassins and blackguards and all sorts of nasty bad guys out there. I can be your Joan of Arc, I can help protect you."

"Anna..."

"You don't have to be afraid. Trust me."

Kristoff stood awkwardly to the side. He had expected something like this would happen as soon as his wife hatched her plot, but that was a lot different from living it.

"So... uhhh... I hope your ship doesn't sink?"

"That was the wrong thing to say," said Sven.

"Yeah, it was Sven, yeah it was. Well, your ship can't sink, can it? If it starts sinking, you can freeze the water over, and ships can't sink through ice."

"That's still the wrong thing to say," said Sven again.

The captain walked out of the ship onto the dock. He turned to look at the assembled trio.

"Your Majesty? Colonel Hohenzollern? The ship will be departing soon, you'd best hurry and make sure you're fully packed."

Elsa looked deep into Anna's eyes, then hugged her. Anna returned the hug. A tear ran down Elsa's cheek, hit the pier, and rolled into the sea, where it disappeared with a noiseless splash.

"I promise, you won't regret this. Because... for the first time in forever, I'll be seeing real baguettes! For the first time in forever, we'll be marching with the vets! And I know that it's totally crazy, to th-"

"Colonel Hohenzollern, this is a Coronan vessel, as so long as you are sailing with me, I am in charge as Captain. Singing is against both Army and Navy regulations."

"Sorry."

The sisters climbed the ramp onto the ship. It creaked and groaned, almost as if it knew the great weight and importance of who it currently bore. In the distance, the clock struck twelve. The wind rushed around them, as if the spirits of nature wished to give Elsa one last caress. The people, although not informed before, had noticed the spectacle and gathered around the harbor. As the ship pushed off into the harbor, they joined into one mass salute. Off in the distance, the castle band struck up a marching tune.

Elsa turned to Anna, and they held each others' hands. An osprey flew over the ship, heading towards the castle.

"We'll be back someday. I know we will."


	7. Blood and Iron: What Gothel Wrought

**From the preface of Blood and Iron: What Gothel Wrought by Riley Aslaugssen and Ingrid Haugen**

It would be a gross mischaracterization and oversimplification to say that Rapunzel was stupid. By all accounts, she was an intelligent, strong-willed, and feisty individual. What led to such Junker dominance during her reign then? The answer begins with Rapunzel, of course, but it does not begin with her reign.

All the misery of the 20th century, in a very loose way, can be traced back to Mother Gothel. The King and Queen mourned for their lost daughter, but a kingdom cannot sustain itself through mourning. If the monarchy cannot run the nation, someone will. So the landed aristocracy of Corona, the Junkers, took it upon themselves to form a bureaucratic system. As years went by, the bureaucracy strengthened. When Rapunzel took the throne in 1801, following the untimely death of her father, she was taking the helm of a government run heavily by Junkers. The Queen Dowager was not in a position to contest this. If Rapunzel had a more political education, she might've. But Mother Gothel had not groomed Rapunzel to rule, she had groomed her to be obedient. Again, I must stress that Rapunzel was not stupid. Despite being 18 at the time of her reintroduction into the world, she still managed to learn two new languages, Polish and Norwegian (although her Norwegian was not as natural), and thoroughly modernized her German, as Gothel had spoken to her in an antiquated dialect. However, Corona by the early 19th century had become a well-oiled machine, and no longer needed royal intervention, only royal approval. Furthermore, the Junkers were naturally inclined towards militarism, making it almost inevitable that Corona and its associates would oppose Austria in the Napoleonic wars. It was the perfect chance to improve Coronan prestige.

This, of course, led to a further north-south split in German nationalism, the fruits of which would be borne out disastrously later. The grapes of wrath had not yet been plucked and pressed, but to be sure, they now ripened on the vine.

Junker dominance in Coronan politics had another curious effect. It enabled the rise of the 19th century's greatest statesman: Bismarck. Even in his college years, you could see signs of greatness. When his father died in 1839, he was summoned to the capital to take his place in the Diet. He soon gained a reputation as a masterful orator, and his speeches proclaiming the Divine Right to rule of the Hohenzollerns using Rapunzel's powers as proof soon swayed the entire legislature. In March 1841, he was given the job of Chancellor at the unprecedented age of 25. From there, he would shape the course of Europe. German nationalists came to distrust Corona after they sided with Napoleon, and in 1848, during the revolution, the crown of Germany was offered to Austria. They accepted. Not to be outdone, Bismarck countered by uniting the North German Federation and Poland into the Coronan Federation, crowning Rapunzel as Kaiserin. He forged alliances and brokered deals that created a balance of power guaranteeing peace in Europe. But the apparatus was balanced carefully on the Junker government. At the same time, Bismarck had guaranteed the absolute power of the monarchy. By doing this, Bismarck made a grave mistake, perhaps his only one. During the reign of Rapunzel, the machine behaved as intended. Perhaps Bismarck expected future monarchs to behave similarly to Rapunzel. It had seemed like her seventy one year reign had lasted forever. But upon her death in 1872, things would change dramatically.

_"Waterloo came thirty years after the death of Frederick the Great; the crash will come thirty years after my departure if things go on like this." - Otto Von Bismarck_

The throne passed to Eugene I, a man who some say inherited all the worst traits of his one time thief father. His audacity, ambition, and restlessness were only exacerbated by the long reign of his mother, during which he held no power at all, it being concentrated in the hands of the bureaucrats. When he took the throne in 1872, he held a great deal of resentment towards Bismarck, the man who supposedly kept him from exercising his birthright. In 1873, Bismarck was sacked, and his carefully selected ministers replaced with cronies and yes-men who would bend to Kaiser Eugene's will. The networks of alliances across Europe could not be controlled by any men of lesser skill than Bismarck, and they soon began to careen towards war. In 1903, the spark came with a revolution in Macedonia led by Gotse Delchev. The incident, minor at first, spiraled into a conflict that would pit the powers of Germany, Corona, the Ottomans, and Russia against Sweden-Norway, the United States, France, Britain, and Italy. Eugene had foolishly overestimated his power, counting on the aid of France and the US. The legacy of the Napoleonic Wars had lain deeply upon him. Every time he saw old maimed veterans, including his own first cousin once removed, Grand Marshal Anna Hohenzollern of France, it had impacted him. It was a tangible reminder of what others had done to Corona. Similarly, romantic stories about the battles throughout Europe shaped his psyche, and he dreamed that the US and France would come riding to Corona's aid again, if war broke out. But his dreams would not come to pass. Corona would be crushed. It had been thirty years almost exactly since Bismarck's dismissal. The humiliating peace terms imposed on Corona in the Treaty of Bucharest led to resentment that would boil over forty years later, and the Russian economy would collapse in the fighting, leading to the Communist Revolution. The Russian bear would not forget the terms imposed by Sweden in exchange for its withdrawal. It had not forgotten the Winter Wars, the Great Northern Wars it had fought so long ago. In 1917, the revolution spread on the rifles of the Red Army, and Sweden fell to communism. Norway, which had reclaimed Arendelle in the Treaty of Bucharest, briefly broke away, but in 1919, it too would fall to communism through coup, and it was turned into a Soviet satellite. Later American writers would cite this as the first instance of the Domino effect.

When we look at all the charts and figures, we often risk losing sight of the human side of history. I will admit that I am not faultless here-this book contains many statistics and graphs. But one must always keep in mind that behind each number is a person. The genocides of the Second World War cannot be condensed down in a simple figure like four million Hungarians or twenty million Soviets. The tragedy of a starving child waiting in line for hours for bread as the Party elite feast hides behind every failed harvest report. I cannot pretend to tell you all of these stories. But I can tell you one. Mother Gothel was a living relic of the Medieval Era. The consequences of her actions can be considered one last strike of the Medieval Era and ancient ways against modernity. With her passing, the modern age came into being. Read on, my friends, and see what Mother Gothel wrought.


	8. Battalions encamped

As requested, here is a report of the troubles encountered on the trip.

I highly recommend we never transport hussars and royalty on the same boat again. They made a dreadful racket at all times, from high noon to the dead of night. Wild parties, drinking, sea shanties. It made it impossible to get any sort of rest. And the princess, far from discouraging them, actually egged them on. The only benefit that was gleaned there was perhaps some small gain in camaraderie. Also note that Her Majesty gets seasick very easily, and that the vomit from these episodes is frozen. It stuck to floors, to the ship's siding, everywhere, and it was very difficult to clean. If I must provide a silver lining, the vomit did not smell of anything except fresh powder. Nevertheless, whenever possible, I suggest that she move by land.

* * *

The camp was a noisy pandemonium. A war camp of this size was more like a small city than a clumping of soldiers. There were fighting men, but there were also launderers, chefs, camp followers, and all sorts of hangers on. Napoleon said that an army marched on its stomach, and this is true. It also marches on a thousand other things, ranging from clothing, to water, to powder, to bullets. Those supplies were weighty, and had to be heavily guarded if brought alone. If supplies could not be brought along, they had foraged. If neither could be done, the army would falter and men would die. It is sometimes said that civilization is only a few meals away from collapse at any given time.

For an army, both the soldiers and the guns have to be fed. What we have then is a situation infinitely more precarious.

A few miles away was the Rhine. If one had superhuman hearing, and could filter out all the noises of the camp, then perhaps they could make out the sound of rushing water.

Anna was not thinking about any of this at the moment. Instead, she was considering what to show her sister. She peeked her head into Elsa's tent.

"Hey there sis, whatcha doing?" said Anna.

"Reading," replied Elsa.

"You should come out and get some fresh air."

"The air here isn't exactly fresh."

"Oh come on, it'll be fun. It'll be educational too. I mean, I'm not the sharpest hammer in the bunch, and I've learned a lot."

Anna walked to Elsa and began to tug at the Queen's arm. After a few moments, Elsa stopped resisting and got up. Together they walked outside and began to survey the camp. In the distance, one could see a thin tendril of smoke extending from another tent. Five minutes of walking later, Anna spotted a group of soldiers drinking and smoking around a cauldron of stew propped up in a clearing. They walked over. The man in the middle, apparently the leader, tipped his hat at them and spoke. He looked to be in an ambiguous middle age, with hair that was starting to gray. His features were very handsome in a classically masculine sort of way. His smile was warm but subdued. His eyes held a knowing spark.

"Well, what brings such fine ladies such as yourselves to our little camp?" asked the man.

"We're exploring!" replied Elsa.

"I see. Well, have some soup. I'm Louis Adam Jean, but everyone just calls me Adam. I had too many relatives named Louis."

"Adam? Oh, too simple of a name for our glorious leader," laughed one of the soldiers.

"Indeed! Such a noble man can only be called Prince Adam," chuckled another.

"Prince? There are no princes in France now. No, he's..." said yet another, as the group began to sing.

(Insert vocaroo link here)/i/s0bZ51FkA0ox (Bad singing warning.)

Louis Adam Jean, Sergeant of rank III  
But a larger title and a claim has he  
Citizen of France, Citizen of all  
Citizen Fraternity is his true call

Of nicer princes, not a single  
Even married a small town girl  
So come here, have a seat, stay and mingle  
As life stories go, his is a pearl

Siblings, he's got two  
That's plentier than you  
Cousins there were many  
but not anymore (oh, shoo)

Loves to sing and dance  
Loves to cook and clean  
Loves to clean his wife up  
if you get what I mean

(Nobody cleans like Gaston!)

Even has a cat and puppy  
No wait, that was a carpet and clock  
Everyone's got glories past  
His just didn't quite quite last  
But we love him anyway, cause he's Louis Adam Jean  
jean jean jean, jean jean jean

Princes of the Blood, Princes of Ducal Grace  
Princes, princes, princes hanging from the gates  
But Fraternity is such a giver  
He guillotines himself for France  
So really he deserves a chance  
in la Grande Armee!

The song was cut short by the blast of an explosion.

"See Elsa? They even do songs! Isn't the Army fun?"

"Fun...? Anna, we're here to _kill people_!"

"Oh yeah, huh? I guess I forgot."

There was a wet thud as something landed near Anna.

"Oh. Ew. I think that's a hand."


	9. Baden in Winter

Package is being delivered on time and safe. As recommended, she is under secret watch by our men. These custodians have been put under the command of Louis Adam Jean of Orleans, brother to our dear Duke of Orleans. If he fails at the task, both he and the Duke will be executed, along with their families. Not that I'm worried, both of the brothers have been very loyal to the revolution so far.

We crossed the Rhine today. Already, her powers prove useful. We were able to avoid a bridge crossing close to a German town, hopefully delaying our detection.

_The power whirled inside of her, an unending storm. When she gave the signal, it surged out, a white stampede rolling over the waters. Foam and splash hardened in mid air, falling to the river's icy surface with gentle pings. The ice spread deeper and deeper into the river, crystalline matrices forming and reinforcing, until it was thick and strong enough to hold thousands of men marching across at once. March, they did. And after they crossed, she released her hold. The Rhine relaxed, and began to flow again. Only a few shards remained, and then, only for the briefest of spans. They sparkled out of existence, held by the warm embrace of summer waters._

For the first part of our journey, we encountered no one of note. As you predicted, they are marshaling their forces in the Black Forest and Tyrol. They expect to march in behind you and crush your back against the Mediterranean.

_They caught a spy in the 3__rd__ Gdynian Hussars camp. Perhaps he wasn't a spy, but he certainly shouldn't have come near. He was young, couldn't be older than twenty, but still a threat. The Austrians couldn't know what was happening, or else they would turn around and face this army, then proceed with their original plan and crush the rest of Napoleon's forces waiting in Italy. He had to be dealt with. The men drew lots as to who would be in the firing squad. Colonel Hohenzollern had a short stick. His back was placed against a great oak. The men fired. He slumped over. The body was hung on the oak and left to rot. Elsa had a hard time sleeping that night._

We have thoroughly outmaneuvered them. On 13 September, we met our first enemy resistance, if it could be called that. A mere five thousand men, marching southwards. They did not expect any to come up from behind them. We had the element of surprise and superior terrain. The rout was textbook. And we have field tested the package. It was a most excellent result.

_The first snows of winter had begun to fall. Elsa had a position up on a hill where she could see the whole battle, a position that could rightly be called commanding. Elsa didn't feel in command. Cavalry were wheeling around, beginning their first charge, as line infantry formed up and volleyed at the enemy. The first unit of cavalry ran up to the enemy lines. She couldn't tell who was leading it. Their head burst like a balloon. The ground underneath the Queen's feet began to freeze over. Another group of cavalry assembled, ready to strike at the other flank. She could see one with red hair leading the formation. Part of the enemy line rotated to face the horsemen. The hoof-beats took on a thunderous tempo. A cloud of smoke, the horse stumbles, the rider flinches. Stronger than one. A man forms out of ice. He begins to run towards the foe. The rider steadies herself, the horse continues its course. She couches her lance, swings her horse to point directly at a hapless soldier. Cavalrymen lift their sabers up. Stronger than ten. The horsemen impact. Lances go straight through hearts, carbines are discharged at point-blank range. The ice man grows larger, snow flakes being sucked towards him, an icy vortex forming around his body. Men are made into mince meat. Sabers slice gracefully through heads, jaws detach from skulls. The Austrians are threshed like wheat. The air is filled with the sounds of squishing meat, cracking bones, and wails of agony. Stronger than a hundred men. The ice man has become a giant. The Austrians are completely unprepared. They try to fire at the beast. It does nothing. Cannons fire at it. They do nothing. The monster roars. A row of men are frozen in their tracks before being shattered instantly. The formation breaks, they try to run. The force of wind and snow sucking in towards the creature prevents them. There will be no escape from the battle. The French cavalry have stopped, just watching now. The abomination slams its fists into the earth and spikes sprout from the ground in concentric circles. Boys are impaled on the icy spears. Their mouths contort in agony, the expressions frozen in pleading wishes for mercy. A cannon crew tries to scan the beast for weaknesses; it senses the threat. A shard of ice flies towards the gun, it backfires. The crew is splattered all over the ice and their comrades. Luckily, their friends do not have time for disgust. The wrath of God is already upon them. They stand before it and are judged. Today, no one will be worthy._

Its job complete, the demon collapses. So does Elsa. A figure steps forward. Her minder. He is only in his fifties, but in this moment, he looks far, far older. He is truly a beast for what he's doing, but it's necessary. He has to do it. He has to do it for his friends, for his family. For Belle. Besides, this brutality would show the monarchies of Europe that resistance was futile. The age where kings and nobles could callously disregard the feelings and needs of the downtrodden and repressed was over. The revolution must spread. Still, he shuddered. He picked up the sleeping beauty gingerly, taking care not to be too rough. He brought her back to her tent. Elsa would have a dreamless sleep.

Ice cannot heal, only preserve. And nothing can be preserved forever. When the ice thaws, the bodies will rot. Vultures will come, pick over the meat. The autumn sun would shine, the heat would bring decay. By the time the winter breezes blew, there would be nothing but bones, bleached to a snow white. Ice cannot heal.


	10. Bonaparte

There is a magic and beauty to the Eternal City that cannot be described by words. There is a wonder to Italy that cannot be known easily. Once upon a time, Europe bowed before Rome. Napoleon had been to Italy before. You could even say that he was born there. And now, he was returning. He had already saw, and conquered. This time, he wanted the city to kneel.

The pope was waiting for him. He could wait a while longer. Napoleon took the air in deeply with each breath. He let the ancient power of the city flow through him. Today was a day unlike any other. The Holy Roman Empire was a sham. It was not Holy, it was not Roman, and the Emperor was anything but. For the first time in over a millennium, nay, for the first time in forever, Europe would have an Emperor. The Romans had never conquered all of Europe. He would. The Romans faced tribes and primitive states. His foes were Great Powers. His imperial dignity would be the greatest the world had ever known. He took his seat. They prayed. Did they pray to God, or to him?

He walked slowly towards the altar. The pope was about to crown him. He struck first, taking the wreath and crowning himself. He then crowned Josephine, his beloved Empress.

With that act, Napoleon passed forever into immortality. A crown had been given unto him. And lo, I saw him open the second seal. Then went out a red horseman, with the power to take peace from all the nations, and there was given unto him a great sword.


	11. Corpses under Olive Shade: Intermission

A boy sat under an olive tree, his eyes glassy and blank. Snow dusted his brow and hair, tinting them a cold white. His name had been Jacques. His name would go unremembered. What had he wanted? He had wanted fun. He had wanted glory. He had wanted freedom. He had received none of it, and been undone. His rifle, twisted and broken, lay beside him, shaped like some perverse shepherd's crook. A snail crawled up a blade of grass, munching happily. A worm burrowed through the ground, churning and fertilizing. A sparrow flew overhead.

And a queen, in a meadow not too far, but not too close, wept.

Across the sea, an experiment begins. Land is bought to found a town called Harmony. Eventually, with the New Harmony colony, it will spread the promise of peace by advancing the cause of science. For now, peace is a distant lie. There is only ceasefire, and the hunger of nations.

It had been eighteen hundred years exactly since Tiberius conquered Germania inferior. But from the bloodshed, it looked like barbarians lived there still.


	12. Convention

"Daddy, what are we watching?" asked the tyke, a short and chubby child about six years old, with light brown hair.  
"It's called Frozen," said Riley.

"Is it as good as Moana? What about Zootopia, Tomorrow Land or Lion King?" asked the other child, a small girl, four years old, almost five, with platinum blonde hair.

"Better," replied their father.

He checked the time. 2:14PM, 2/9/2022. The convention had been delayed nearly a month by very heavy snows. He resisted the urge to check those doubles. It would be incredibly silly for a man his age. He pulled into the parking.

"Everybody out of the car. The show starts in six minutes, and we shouldn't be late."

The show opened up with a 3D animated short, like the kind you would get at the parks. By the end, the whole theater was in stitches. Then the movie started. They oohed and aahed at the Let it Go scene. His kids gasped when Hans revealed his treachery. One woman in the back shouted out, "He's up to no good!" When the credits started to roll, there was a round of applause from the whole crowd. His kids started to leave, but he stopped them.

"Not yet. There's a special scene after the credits, and a special treat inside them."

Sure enough, near the end of the credits, he suddenly pointed up. His kids' jaws dropped.

"Is that your name daddy?" asked the girl.

"Sure is. Historical consultant."

"Whoa. So cooool," said the boy.

He brought them back to the car.

"You know, the queen looks a lot like mommy," said his son.

"I'm dropping you off at the hotel, I have to go to the conference. Be good for mommy, ok?" said Riley.

"Sure. I pinky-promise," said his daughter. He noticed crossed fingers out of the corner of his eye, and smiled.

Later that day, he approached the podium.

"Introducing the Chair of German History at Harvard University, Riley Aslaugssen!"

"Thank you speaker. As we all know, history is important. But history is the story of mistakes just as much as it is the story of success. For every great victory in history, there were a thousand tiny defeats. And for every act of great nobility, there were a dozen petty tragedies. When we look back at history, it can be easy to judge these mistakes. But we are history. Every day, we make history. Our decisions, one day, will be written down in a book by dusty old professors just like us. And rest assured, we have made mistakes to. Don't judge the past by the mistakes. Learn from them. Recognize that those mistakes just made them human, just like it makes us human. Remember to err is human; to forgive is divine. Let the 2022 American Historical Association convention begin."


	13. Carrara

Elsa woke up. Anna was waiting by the tent entrance.

"Hey there sleepy-head. How are you doing?"

"Anna! Are you alright?"

"Course I am! It was only a grazing shot, nothing for a strong and brave hussar like me. You know Joan of Arc was shot through the neck and lived? Anyways, what about you? That was amazing! You stopped the whole enemy army single-handedly."

"Yeah..."

"I mean, first I saw a few snowflakes, then this big old snowman runs over and knocks everyone over." Anna smiled. "Now I wanna build a snowman."

"I murdered them. They would have surrendered and I killed them all."

"Well... you can think of it this way... they were living under a bunch of tyrants, so by killing them, you really freed them. You freed the shit out of them. They're just a little bit chilly now. Little, tiny, itty-bitty bit."

"You don't understand, I didn't even mean to kill them. I was just so scared. I thought you were going to die. I thought I was going to die. I heard cannonballs whizzing over us, I saw you get hit. I lost control. Those people... they'll never see their friends or family again. They're gone."

"Pierre Allais."

"What?"

"Michael Aberjonois. Jean-Luc Bellegarde. Antoine Vernier. Jacob Watteau. They died in that charge, and that was just the start of the battle. What would've happened if the battle dragged on? More people would've died, Elsa. We'd end up killing them anyways, Elsa, but we'd have lost more men. There's no such thing as a perfect battle-except for the one you just made."

"Anna, you don't get it! I'm a monster!"

"No, you're not. You're my sister, and you're the best sister anyone could have. The men love you, you saved their lives. I love you too. You can't beat yourself up over this. You look tired. Get some more sleep, we're crossing into Italy this week."

Anna closed the tent flap, and the Gates of Hell opened wide behind Elsa. Giant clammy, gray hands burst from it, and dragged Elsa in. She screamed. All around her were the pale shades of thousands of ethereal petitioners. Lines stretched back into the horizon, endless queues of the damned. She tried to stand up, only to feel a boot pressed against her back. She looked up, and it was the pope.

"An unholy demon like you wishes to march into the city of God? You will never be allowed to blaspheme against Rome! May God have mercy on your soul."

She felt their presences draw nearer and nearer. The souls of all those lives she had cut short. She tried to scream again, but couldn't. One of the spirits tore out her throat. The others set about their grisly business, literally ripping her to shreds. She felt their ghostly hands reaching deep inside her, felt an unimaginable pain as bit by bit she was disassembled. The ground burst and cracked, and she fell into a pit of hellfire. Her skin cracked open and blistered, the fat melted from her bones, the muscle charred. Her eyes poured out of their sockets, liquefied by the heat. There could be no mercy, would be no mercy for someone like her. She had sinned far too deeply against the Almighty.

Elsa woke up in a cold sweat. Anna was waiting by the tent entrance.

"Wakey-wakey. Breakfast is done. We've got stale biscuits, bad coffee, old beans, weird meat, and the daily special is... dah dah dah dah, olives! Procured by yours truly. How's the Hero of Baden doing today?"

"Urghh..."

"Awww, you look grumpy. You should eat some olives, that'll cheer you up. They're sooooooooo good, and fresh too."

"I'm sorry, I don't want any olives."

"You sure? I worked really hard for them. Acquired them from a local farm. We had to deal with an enemy patrol. Luckily, we got the jump on them."

"Go away Anna."

"Okay... bye."

"Wait! Please don't go, I didn't mean it. I'll try some of your olives."

"Fantastic! I'll mix them up with some weird meat. I keep the meat in a locker by your bed. The cold keeps it fresh. Weird, right? Weird meat."

"What is weird meat?"

Anna shrugged.

"No idea, but I can do all sorts of things with it. Weird meat casserole, weird meat pies, weird meat salad, weird meat a la Bonaparte, weird meat sandwiches, weird cheesy meats, weird meatbread, weird meat stew, weird meat gumbo, pickled weird meat. Tastes way better than jerky. I love weird meat."

"Okay. Could you make me some? I trust your judgment."

"Sure. What kind?"

"Uhhhh..."

"I'll just go with weird meat sandwiches. That's a classic."

Elsewhere in the camp, engineers readied their cannon. The Third Coalition had realized its mistake, and rather than try to fight while being pressed from two sides, instead marched towards Carrara, in attempt to evacuate by sea. If the army could storm the defenses and seize the city, it would certainly demoralize the Third Coalition and give Napoleon an excuse to crown himself King of Italy. If they escaped, they would surely return. The British Navy was incredibly potent, and once on the seas, the enemy would have free reign to deploy where they wished. Spring had sprung, along with new hope for the forces of reactionism. Winter may have been on Napoleon's side, but the seas were with Britain.


	14. Carcass

_"I am an irresponsible drinker!" - From the hit single Revolutions of 18 4d8s by the Mildewed Monarchists_

"Intelligence indicates Arendelle will be joining the side of the French Republic. Find a counter to ice powers. Go."

"Burn it?"

"One million pounds. Make it happen. You have five years."

* * *

"Do you have any idea what we're doing?"

"Nope."

* * *

"How about we wangle the doohickey until the sprocketing?"

"Alright."

* * *

"The Greeks had something like this, right?"  
"I think they did."

"If they could do it a thousand years ago, we can too."

* * *

"Why do they call it quicklime, anyways?"

* * *

"Neat. It burns. Can we shoot it?"

* * *

"So... is it Greek fire?"

"Probably not. But it's close enough."

* * *

"GREEK FIRE! OIL FIRE! NOW ICE WITCH IT'S YOUR TURN! SERVE BRITAIN'S EMPIRE. BE OURS OR YOU WILL BUUUUUURNNNNN!"

"Please stop singing, you're scaring me."

* * *

It was far, far too quiet. Men held their breaths, afraid to speak. It seemed like the sound would be sucked out of their bodies if they did. The city did not seem fortified, but appearances could be deceiving. Men were marching in, but there was no fighting. It seemed as if the enemy was abandoning the city to them. Fortifications went unmanned, buildings undefended.

There was the soft patter of boots on cobblestones, but no gunfire. There was the easy sound of water lapping up against the beach, but no booms of artillery.

Snow golems led the way, created reluctantly by Queen Elsa. Did they think? Did they fear? Were there souls in those lifeless crystal eyes? Were they alive? A soldier couldn't help but ask those questions as their noiseless guardians pushed forward.

The silence is broken. The whistling of a cannonball. It slams into one of the golems with a dull thud. More follow, screeching their way through the air. Moments later, their purpose is revealed. Fuses finish burning inside, and fuel ignites. Great gouts of fire sprayed from inside the shots, melting man and snowman alike. Men begin to panic, to flee. Missteps are made. A click, a blast. A man bursting into flames, melting like marshmallow. From their hiding spots, the enemy strikes. In the narrow streets of the city, the muskets of the French offer them no ranged advantage. The fire reaches over, narrow fingers reaching from walls and windows. It licks them, covers them, caresses them. Sensual, smothering, it spreads over them. They are weak, they lack endurance. They crumple up and sleep. The fire does not mind so long as there is more. It is so warm, so giving. It spreads. A thousand hugs, a thousand kisses. It casts its enveloping net over the city. It is very difficult to force a horse into spears, and it is the same with men and fire. At the same time, the fire entrances them, it seduces them. There is no choice but to look away, to run, but the temptation of Sodom is too great and will always be too great. She spreads, but wonders why. The men all run, are all afraid. She has a million grasping hands, a million smiling maws, a million loving eyes, but yet they fear. She spreads more slowly. Her beauty is intoxicating. Men look in, their breath taken away. They are stupefied, they collapse. She does not mind. She is a patient lover, so long as she is satisfied. But the many continue to scorn her.

She mouths once, twice, a dozen times, the names of her lovers. All of them would abandon her in time. She ceases her spread. Rome, Pforzheim, Constantinople, Halifax, Moscow, Hamburg, London, Peshtigo, Dresden, Darmstadt, Trang Bang, Tokyo, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Prometheus. An incantation, spreading through the air, held by the whispering wind. A magic beyond magic, a pact made with man in a time before time, long ago in a muted storm. A pact of passion and love. A pact often broken. The fire blows back on itself, pensive. Then, it begins. There is no wrath like hers. She stands up, rises into the air. Her arms stretch out, whirling, unstoppable. They strike the ground and suck men in. The sky blackens in fear. Ash rains down, the tears of a raging storm.

Elsa watched. The ice would not form. The snow refused to show. There are queens, and then there are empresses. The Gates of Hell had opened.

It had only been a trial run.

Aboard their ships, they watched. It had been a success beyond their wildest expectations. They would burn the cities, feed the crops to their empress, and prostrate themselves. Napoleon would march, feasting on ashes with every step. And when battle was given, she would come and dispense her love. They had hoped it would happen. Kerosene, quicklime, napalm, white phosphorus. These were the tokens, offered many times by men. Fortunately, she was not a jealous lover. It did not matter if a hundred, a thousand, or even a million starved. It would be consummated.


	15. Cog

Human beings are creatures of habit. It was remarkable how quickly one could acclimate to the most bizarre of situations. Every day went pretty much the same way. Elsa would have a nightmare (today's was an army of Hans clones trying to kill her sister), and wake up in a cold sweat. She would lie back and think about the morality of creating sapient snow beings just to send them to their deaths. Her sister would peek her head in, tell her to wake up, and announce breakfast. It was usually some sort of weird meat dish with biscuits and bad coffee. Then she would begin the day's work, if you could call it that. She would read some philosophy first. After that was history. Then came economics. She made it a point to keep up with the latest advances in the field, and she had piles of her own scribbled notes. Perhaps one day, if she had the time, she would compile them into a theory. She would take a break and have lunch. Lunch was usually a thin gruel accompanied by the lunch special, the lunch special being whatever Anna and her procurement specialists could loot from nearby hapless peasants. Then it was back to wok. There would be no laws, so she took it upon herself to fabricate scenarios and design policies to counter said problems. It paid to keep skills sharp. She would revise her letters to Professor Paulus. She had sent in a critique of commentary on the New Testament a few years back, and soon found herself engaged in correspondence. Unfortunately, the war had cut that short. Thuringia was under Austrian occupation. After that came mathematics and natural philosophies. Late into the night she would make calculations and ponder solutions. Snowflakes were the main problem. She was certain that they could be described, indeed, she felt it in her bones. She consulted mathematical notes from Leibniz and Newton. She attempted to apply principles from other fields. Her copy of the Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica was practically unreadable with annotations. For now the problem remained unsolved. The day exhausted and the night growing old, she would crawl back into her bed and sleep. As it turned out, the business of war was more about walking around and nicking people's food and less about actual fighting. It was almost charmingly banal.

Right on schedule, Anna peeked her head through the tent flap.

"Wakey, wakey, it's eggs and not quite bakey!"

"Good morning Anna."

"Awww, somebody looks like a big old sourpuss. Fire still weighing you down? Lasalle gave me some advice that really helped. He drinks, he fucks his wife, then he's ready to die for France."

"You don't have a wife, Anna."

"I know. I replace that step with another round of drinking."

"Who's Lasalle?"

"Lasalle. You know, Lasalle. Hussar? Adventurer? Brave? Bold? Gallant? Great at parties? All around fun guy? No? Hmmm. Well, what about Pierre? He collects ears. Nope...? Do you know anyone?"

"Not really."

"Wait, wait, wait. Do you even leave this tent?"  
"Not often."

"You should go out more. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Elsa! I meet so many interesting people here. Like Baptiste! Did you know he set himself on fire three times? And only the first two were accidents!"

Elsa thought about it for a moment, then grinned.  
"Never change, Anna."

Anna beamed back in gleeful noncomprehension.

"Uhhhh, okay! Anyways, you should really come hang out. It's loads of fun. We drink, we smoke, we play cards, we swap raunchy sex stories..."

"You don't have any raunchy sex stories."

"How do you know? What if I dress up like Kristoff and Kris dresses up like you? What if we smear chocolate on our bodies and whip each other?"

"I keep detailed personal and public expense reports on everyone in the castle as well as other persons of note, and I triple check them every day to look for corruption. I would notice."

"Well, you're right. But, hypothetically, we could've been doing that. How do you have time for that anyways?"

"I'm a dedicated civil servant."

* * *

He was also a dedicated civil servant. He was an everyman, and by everyman, I mean every project manager from now until the dawn of time. Like his archetype demanded, he was filled with a mixture of feelings. On one hand, these were some of the smartest people in the Empire. On the other hand, he was absolutely disgusted by their stupidity.

Sometimes smart men go uncredited by history. In laboratories around the world, graduate students slave away at projects, only for their teachers to receive all the credit. In science, the prestigious will get more prestigious, and the unknown will continue to lose their share of the recognition.

"Hey there boss. Trial run went perfectly, right?"

"You're telling me that you spent 90% of the product and almost all of the money on one battle?"  
"Yeah, morale damage. That's how you win wars! I learned all about it from my history books and tabletop war games. They probably think good ol' Georgey's a fire spirit now."

"How are we supposed to fight any other battles now?"

"Well, you don't have to use that much. Should be fine to engage so long as there's enough fire to keep away the frost. We'll need a few months or maybe a year to brew up some more though."

"A year? A year? We don't have a year!"

"Relax. Just be like Jons over there. Look at how calm he is."  
"Bork bork?" asked Jons.

"Heh. He doesn't understand a word of English. HELLO... JONS. I... AM... BRITISH."

"Bork," replied Jons.

"See?"  
"He actually does speak English," said Sir Davy.

Jons Berzelius frantically shook his head.

"Anyways, you should be a little quieter. You'll wake up Dalton."

"He's only 40. He should have the energy to be awake."  
"Yeah, but he looks way older. And really, isn't it the observable properties of a substance that matter?"

And sometimes, if history does not remember you, it is because the people writing it didn't like you.

* * *

Project Tartarus has been both a great success and a horrific failure. In the future, it is of the utmost importance that we watch our researchers carefully, and constantly have their funding at risk. In my opinion, they become a mixture of reckless and complacent when this is not the case. Unfortunately, we must save our campaigning for next year.


	16. Coronation

"You intend me to wait longer? My family has waited hundreds of years while Arendelle has encroached on our lands, and now that the time is right, you expect me to wait?" raged Gustav IV.

"The situation has become unfavorable, your Highness," replied the diplomat. He was holding his tongue. He had a deep personal disdain for Gustav, who he regarded as a pompous buffoon.

"So this is England, then? A land where they might sympathize with the devil himself so long as it is convenient?"  
"If I might speak, my lord, our position strengthens by the day. We have evacuated the greater part of the army stranded on the continent, and if we are able to force a naval engagement and win decisively, then Napoleon will be kept in check, for fear of a naval landing endangering France itself. Our demonstration of fire will make them wary of advancing in our territory, and if you hold your men in reserve, Arendelle might withdraw out of fear."

"I do not want Arendelle to withdraw, I want Arendelle to be mine. Do you not understand that Arendelle is ruled by a literal hellspawn? Kings such as myself are the arbiters of God's will on Earth. And God will not stand such a creature defiling the sweet north."

"Our spies indicate that United States forces are currently protecting Arendelle. If you were to make a move now, you would kill American citizens. Based on... prior knowledge, whether it was their fault or yours, the Americans will blame you, they will curse your name, and they shall redouble their efforts. Even the most just and light of taxes is viewed by them as a provocation. They are a wild people."

"And so they must be subdued. No race of men ought to be wild enough to serve the machinations of Satan himself."

"Napoleon is a great foe, and he must be stopped, but he is not Satan. Sweden depends heavily on British trade, your Highness. I would not tempt our wrath."

Gustav fumed. The diplomat looked on, solemnly. Inside, he felt a great welling up of happiness. He was certain the fool would make a mistake now, just to avenge his pride.

* * *

He was right. The Swedish army marched south through the Brenner Pass, woefully unsupported by Austrian or British men. It was a paltry 51000 regulars augmented by another 20000 in conscripts, totaling just over 70000 men. The French and allies, 55000 in strength, were outnumbered. But their army was wholly regular, composed of men who would not break in battle. In addition, those conscripts had been raised essentially illegally, violating established principles of the Swedish Army. Thus, the men there felt betrayed and would not die for such a petty cause. Furthermore, the ability of Elsa to create disposable ice soldiers meant that the Swedish had to strike first, strike quickly, and strike decisively, or else they would be overrun. The French had a commanding position overlooking the Adige, across from the modern town of Castello Plars. From their forested ridge, they could spot any enemies advancing across the plains in front, and movements to cross the river at another point could be spotted by a screen of reconnaissance cavalry before they were completed, which would allow the French to either reposition, or retreat and give battle at a more favorable place and time in the future. The French cavalry could charge from uphill down unto plains, using their momentum to crush the enemy, and the French batteries could sweep the fields with fire. In light of this, Gustav's decision to chase the French army stationed in Italy can be considered phenomenally foolish, and many have agreed that it was one of the decisions that led most decisively to his forced abdication less than a year later.

The Swedish officers forced to give such orders can truly be considered tragic men. Their choices were now limited to choices of formation and other tactics. As military histories and their glories will tell you, this was no insignificant choice. A row meant more fire being output. A column was faster, quicker. It could slam into enemy lines and slice them apart. Squares, untouchable by cavalry. As crude as it was, battles were still often decided by bayonet and not bullet. The ability to make decisive shock actions was worth its weight in gold. Even fifty years later, successful charges would occur in the Crimean War. Even today, men who are _merely_ fighting for their friends, families, and loved ones can be broken by the killing edge of professional men willing to invoke the ancient art of a charge. The French had already been hardened by years of war. The standing army of the Swedes, on the other hand, was living a life of faded glory. It was barely even a standing army, using a quasi-feudal system. The Frenchmen were lean and hungry. The Swedish could not be prepared for that. And Elsa, waiting in the wings, was making her choice. A decisive victory here would crush Sweden's forces and secure Arendelle against invasion. But was it worth killing so many? War was an extension of diplomacy, and diplomacy merely a portion of statecraft. Elsa was an excellent administrator. But the benign sounds of statecraft and diplomacy were mere masks-the game of words was bloody indeed, and war was simply diplomacy sans the velvet glove. Was Elsa an excellent monarch?


	17. Deutschland: Intermission

It was the week before Christmas, during the fifth year of the reign of Rapunzel I the Divine, heir to Frederick William II the Mourner, heir to Frederick the Great.

A kidnapper was after the Queen. Rapunzel ran, across battlements and roof tops, leaping building to building. Her pursuer was persistent, agile, strong. He followed effortlessly, silent and graceful as a panther. She fired her pistol back at him. Either it missed, or it did no good, as her pursuer ran on as if nothing had happened. She jumped down onto a balcony, ran inside the building. He followed. She sprinted through the twists and turns of the palace, trying to shake him, but it seemed like he knew the place as well as the back of his hand.

Finally, Rapunzel came to a dead end. A box, overlooking the palace square (it was really more of a circle). She turned, backed up slowly towards the edge. The man walked up, closer and closer. A battalion of parading Kingdom Guards looked up...

"HAIL QUEEN RAPUNZEL. HAIL KING EUGENE."

...and saluted. The King cocked an eyebrow and took his seat. The Queen sat down next to him. Before them was a military parade, traditional just before Christmas.

"Y'know, this whole roleplay thing falls apart if the guards salute me at the end," said Eugene.

Rapunzel tossed her empty popgun to the side. She poked her fingers into his cheeks, and lifted the sides of his mouth into a smile.  
"Don't be so grumpy Eugene."

Eugene leaned in, then grabbed Rapunzel and kissed her deeply. They embraced, then Rapunzel backed up, for a moment breathless. Eugene, ever prepared, immediately responded.

"Looks like I caught you."  
"Yup, I guess you did. Hey... I think I have another idea."

"What is it?"

"How about... I be Rapunzel, and you be Eugene."

"Hmmm. I think I like the sound of that. We can get to that as soon as the state dinner is over."

Both of them giggled like school children. The parade stretched on into the distance, worming its way all around the city of Corona. The military had been the Kingdom's pride and joy for years, and for them to disarm during the mourning period had been a sign of the misery that had plagued the king and his subjects. At the parade's conclusion, a cannon blast was sounded, and guards arrived to bring the royals to the dining hall. A medley of German princes had been assembled.

"Hey there everyone! I'm so glad you could all make it to my Christmas party instead of the Kaiser's," said Rapunzel.

The crowd chuckled. The lords of northern Germany had been meeting at Corona instead of Vienna for almost two centuries now.

"Anyways, I know the party is a little early this year, but we haaaaad to get some state affairs in order. So let's just get that done as quick as possible, starting from my left and going all the way around to my right. Saxony?" said the Queen.  
"Ten thousand men have linked up with Army Group A. We are committed."

"Holstein?"

"Two thousand men, Army Group B."

"Weaseltown?"

"IT'S PRONOUNCED WESELTON, AND... and... and... is that piernik?"

"Yes."

"Piernik is my favorite. May I have some?"

"Sure, go ahead."

The Duke grabbed the plate and began to shovel spice cake into his mouth. You could barely hear it as he gargled out a "four thousand men to Army Group B".

This went on as Rapunzel circled the table. Finally, all forces had been accounted for. 30,000 men were defending the homeland, with 10,000 for the capital and surrounding regions. 170,000 Coronan soldiers were assigned to the Army Groups, along with 45,000 allied soldiers. These 215,000 men had been divided into two army groups of roughly equal size.

"So you may be wondering why we did this. Well, the Imperials are going to get a very nice Christmas present this year. The armies are currently in position to assault multiple enemy forces at once, as soon as Christmas comes. The enemy will be caught off guard, and will either surrender or be defeated with a minimum of fuss. It'll be an easy, bloodless victory. We'll be in Vienna by April. Speaking of Christmas presents..."

A grumpy looking man walked in.

"It is I, the STARMAN. If you have been of an unpleasant character this year, prepare to suffer the WRATH OF CORONA. BEHOLD. GIFT UNITS FOR THE LOYAL. FOR SAXONY. FIVE THOUSAND MEN FOR DEFENSE. FOR WESELTON, A NEW SHIP OF THE LINE. FOR THE FREE CITY OF BREMEN, FOUR CANNONS," barked the man. This went on, again, around the table. He then retrieved several bottles of alcohol and began to place them at people's seats.

"BEHOLD, IT IS THE KRUPNIK. IMBIBE. DRINK THE HONEY VODKA AND BE AMUSED."

"Why are you being so grumpy?" asked the Queen.

"You replaced me with a horse once."

"Well, he did keep crime down," said the King Consort. "Plus, it was really funny."

"Yes. Criminals are afraid of a very heavy animal crushing their heads like a melon underneath his hooves. This is very worthy of mirth."

With business settled, the feast began in earnest.

* * *

Below, the beating heart of Coronan constitutionalism pulsed. Thousands of bureaucrats slaved away, producing reports and collecting data. Production of resources, training of men, status of defenses, taxes collected, distribution of food, happiness of the peasantry, all condensed down into neat numbers and analyzed. Analysis was built up, made into proposals. The names of the contributors, sealed away in envelopes. Proposals are compared by panels of experts, the worthiest being passed up. Bit by bit, hundreds of ideas are evaluated and stripped away, until only a few remain. These are passed up to the Queen for review, at which point the winning proposal is selected. The package is unsealed, and the authors given their due credit. It was an efficient system, and it ran like clockwork. No one dared to corrupt their duties or sabotage the process. First, there was the fear of discovery by one's peers, and second was the sheer amount of respect held for the Queen. She was near worshiped. For eighteen years, she had been lost, and the kingdom had mourned. Then, out of the blue, she had appeared, as if out of a storybook. It had revitalized the kingdom almost instantly, and convinced noble and peasant alike that destiny smiled upon them.

* * *

Below that was the prison. It was very large, but mostly empty. Under the reign of Frederick William, the dungeons had been expanded over and over again. Crime had skyrocketed. There is such a thing as a national character, and Corona's was underneath a deep malaise. An observer once said that Corona was not a state with an army. It was an army with a state. When the Kingdom Guards had disarmed, and the army had stood silent, the kingdom faltered. Second sons could no longer join the military, and were forced to find other things to do. Countless merchants and craftsmen, engaged in the business of supplying the military machine were suddenly unemployed. The theft of the kingdom had caused its weapons to be sheathed, and the sheathing of the weapons had ruined the land, such that it seemed that the soul of the country had been stolen as well. With poverty and idle time came crime. As crime spread, it became less and less safe to work, until the nation was gripped by the vicious cycle of lawlessness. The Kingdom Guards were nigh impotent against such a threat, having only dusty old crossbows and cavalry sabers, which were still permitted and still effective, but limited in range. When Rapunzel returned, things began to reverse themselves. When she took the throne, the military-industrial complex returned to full strength. Jobs returned, wealth flowed again, and people began to work. As money spread, more and more tertiary fields like the arts returned. Although it was a common folk belief that it was the work of a horse, the end of crime was really the natural course of economics asserting itself.

Mostly empty, however, was not empty. And today, the kingdom had an unwanted visitor. Security had been greatly tightened. Eugene, former thief, had revealed all the little tricks and holes he had used, and those were dutifully patched. The reformed Stabbington brothers and those like them were recruited into a newly formed secret police, organized into death squads, and scrubbed from the records. Threats were dutifully identified and eliminated. The stranger, however, had learned to stay invisible and keep a low profile. He had to, what with his resentful siblings. He slipped past the guards, occasionally offering a bluff. He was important. He was a diplomat. He was supposed to be here. Act like you belonged, and you would. Nobody would question it. He walked, he found breaks in line of sight and disappeared down alleys. He creeped his way closer and closer to the prison. The guard there, a young Junker's son. He was filled with national pride. His older brother served in the bureaucracy, and he did what he could. The stranger planned his approach. He had a window of opportunity for precisely five minutes. Luckily, his internal clock was perfect, one of his many talents. He walked up. The guard, confused, raised his hand, tried to stop him. He walked closer. The guard reached for his gun. A hand, heavy and firm, pressed against the guard's mouth. Another hand grabbed a knife and slit the guard's throat. A quick guess and the keys are found. The door is unlocked. He quickly moves down the halls, goes deep into the prison. He unlocks a cell, leaves the confused middle aged man there before. Sprints down, unlocks a second cell. He turns around, the man has followed him. Just as expected.

"The Stabbington Brothers, I presume," says the man.

"We ain't Stabbingtons no more. Got disowned when we were thrown in here," replied one of the old men.

"You are now. Your poor younger brother was executed by the regime, and his sons were killed too. The cruel old queen even scrubbed them from the census data. Not a single trace of them left."

"I don't give a damn about that. I haven't seen my brother here for sixteen fucking years."

"And you want revenge? Walk with me." asks the man. He smiles, but his eyes are filled with a steely contempt.

"The hell do you think?" replies one of the brothers, now walking alongside the handsome stranger.

"Of course. That's all men like you want. I can give it to you. The queen is the only child and heir of Frederick William, the tyrant that locked you up. She has cousins. I want you to kill them, to hurt her. Understand?"

"I got the same Christmas gift this year as I got every year. Mercy." He spits out the word. "Mercy, they calls it, Coronan mercy. You see, the punishment for high treason is supposed to be the boats. They feed you, make you wallow in your own shit in the middle of a lake while bugs nibble on you, and then you die. But they're merciful, ever so merciful. So instead, they only flog me until my back is raw, and keep me from seeing my brother. No sun. Dead air. Some days, no water. Have to drink my own piss. For sixteen fucking years. Sixteen fucking years of mercy. Those orders... well, they're crystal clear."

"Excellent. I have a boat waiting, and we can make our escape post-haste. Gentlemen, you can call me Hans."


	18. Divinity

"You were completely right Anna."

"Great! What was I right about, again?"

"The war. I can't save everyone, but I can at least save the people I care about."

"Awesome! So you're going to fight?"  
"Yes. I just need to focus."

The Swedish plan was simple. The biggest and only real advantage Sweden held was in its numbers. As a result, the conscripts would be sent in first, to maximize their usefulness before they broke and run. Infantry squares of regulars would guard the flanks and keep the French from using their cavalry to break in. The conscripts would try to cross the river in rows. Since they marched in rows, it would minimize the effect of artillery, and maximize the amount of fire they could output. They would break if engaged in melee, but the conscripts would break in melee regardless of formation, due to their lack of training. After the conscripts had taken the brunt of the enemy fire and artillery, the regulars would move forward in fast moving columns, and shatter the enemy with their bayonets. A simple plan, but one that would not succeed.

It is difficult to march in rows. It may seem simple to rotate or reverse, but if a hapless commander allows his men to move as they would naturally, the formation soon becomes disordered and useless. People do not have perfect senses of direction, and what seems straight can easily be crooked. Lines can slant and stray to the side with the utmost ease. As such, soldiers must be drilled to march or counter-march in the proper way. In the chaos of battle, things can blur into a haze, and movement, being key to battle, must be known in one's bones, must be committed to muscle memory. The column is quick because the column is a more natural way to move. It does not require special training to follow the man in front of you, even if he breaks into a run. But when battle goes awry, then panic may override even training, and soldiers might flee with wild abandon. Many of the casualties in a battle don't occur in the battle itself, but in the rout.

The battle began. The waves of conscripts waded into the river, fearful and apprehensive. No response came from the French. Elsa struck once most of the conscripts and some of the regulars had entered the river. The river instantly iced over, freezing everyone caught within. The infantry squares braced themselves for an enemy charge, only for spikes of ice to suddenly sprout up inside their blocks and in their lines. The enemy defenses weakened, the French cavalry began their charge downhill. Then Elsa willed the ice in the river to take shape. Snow golems formed from it, then the corpses lodged within were extruded to the surface, such that the beasts looked more like shambling mounds of corpses than beings of ice and snow. This would be the last thing the Swedes would see clearly, as blizzards suddenly whirled into existence around them.

The world was whited out. All you could hear was the howl of the storm and the thunder of hoof-beats. Otherwise, you were alone with the knowledge, the terrible knowledge that the meat things shared the storm with you, and it was kind to their nature and vicious to yours. Those that managed to stumble out of the blizzard were dead all the same. The cavalry hadn't actually charged into the blizzard, as it would've blinded them as well. Instead, they circled the blizzard, shooting, trampling, or slicing apart anyone that escaped.

The regulars to the back of the army lost their nerve and began to flee. But the retreat of the enemy army is not sufficient for total victory. The enemy's spirit must be completely and totally broken before it will yield. Men forget easily, and in a few weeks' time they might rally and march once more, and this time with more prudence. A message had to be sent, and Elsa was learned in the ways of theology.

When a message was to be sent, it was sent on the wings of angels. Angels are not kind. Angels do not sing. Angels are sublime to behold, in the original sense of the word. They are a beauty tempered by pure terror and awe-inspiring power. From the ice came a great host of creatures. Lions with the face of men and the wings of eagles wielding frosty sabers, wheels within wheels covered in eyes that shot beams of ice, six-winged avian men, and chimeras of all kinds. They took flight on the wings of icy winds. Cold, lifeless hands burst from the ground, trying to grab men as they fled through the forest. If they failed, the hand would rise up out of the earth, a body forming beneath it, and it would pursue, made in the shape of a dead soldier. Blasts of ice filled the forest. Men hit by them were frozen. A miss did not mean safety, though. Misses went into trees, causing the sap to freeze and quickly expand, which led to the tree exploding into a flurry of wooden shrapnel. Snowflakes stopped their descents in mid air, convulsing and forming into icy shades, shades screaming the voice of a howling wind. Of the 70,000 that took the field that day, less than 13,000 would live to see the next dawn. They did not live because of any special courage or skill possessed. They lived by the whim of the Snow Queen. It had been a calculated mercy. Without survivors, there is no one to spread the fear.

Elsa stood on the ridge, watching the battle. If you must strike, strike first, and strike last.


	19. Domination

For the first time in forever, Germany had been unified in truth as well as in name. Not since the time of Charlemagne had such a feat been done. For the people of Corona, it was proof of Rapunzel's nigh-divinity. That February, Rapunzel would conceive her first child, the future Elizabeth Christine, named after her mother. It is perhaps one of history's cruel ironies to consider that the kidnapping of Rapunzel had saved Frederick William's marriage. By all accounts, he was a heretical mystic (perhaps the only reason he had the people seek a cure to the Queen's disease was his fascination with magical cures), a hedonist, a layabout, and a womanizer. It may be shocking to consider, but he even been slightly disappointed when Rapunzel had been born, as he desired a son instead. The kidnapping changed all of that. He learned to love and stay faithful to his wife. His love of art was channeled towards productive means, including the modern Lantern festival and the construction of the Brandenburg gates. His hedonism and idleness turned to a solemn melancholy and introspection. He died only a few years only after his daughter's return. Some accounts reported that his old heart, so accustomed to mourning, could not take the happiness and burst. He died a good man, utterly reformed from the scandalous boy he had been.

The fall of Germany had occurred swiftly and relatively bloodlessly. On Christmas, the Coronans neutralized two of the strongest non-Austrian forces still in Germany. The rest of the German states were unable to field a large enough resistance, and they did not have enough time to organize into a coalition. Ultimatums were given. Either surrender and pledge absolute loyalty and service to Corona, or be invaded and replaced by a puppet government. A chain reaction took place, and one by one, the German states surrendered. The Austrians, still waiting overseas, were unable to defend Vienna. The Coronans simply marched in.

There was some minor resistance. A patriot, the tragic Andreas Hofer, unwilling to see the conquest of Germany by those he saw as foreign conquerors and traitors to their own German identity, organized a rebel army. It was almost obscene how Coronans were willing to side with French invaders to destroy the spirit of German independence and liberty that had persisted so long. The Holy Roman Empire was built to protect the sovereignty of the individual states, and now the Coronans trampled all over that. He led an army of 12,000 men against Army Group B. They were slaughtered. Many of the rebels were farmers or tradesmen, unaccustomed to modern war. Untrained villagers proved no match for the highly trained and motivated Coronan army. Almost all of the rebels were captured. Their punishment would prove to be an issue. The army had no dungeons, no way of keeping so many people. If they punished them as enemy combatants, it would imply that they had valid cause and that Corona was indeed a foreign presence. If they were punished as rebels against Corona, that would imply that Corona was ruler of Germany, when, at the moment, it was nominally only first among equals. In the end, it was decided to punish them as rebels against the puppet governments, with Corona performing the executions as a public service. 10,000 of them were flogged forty times then released to return to their homes. 1000 of them, viewed to be a greater threat, were beheaded in the traditional manner. Then, 200, seen to be ringleaders, were convicted of high treason. Army surgeons amputated all of their limbs, and the torsos were hung from trees, left to starve and dehydrate. Andreas Hofer stayed brave in the face of death. The officers interpreted that as impudence. He was amputated as well, but his eyes were sealed upon, and he was hung from a long pole, forcing him to watch as his comrades all died. These acts would be condemned as "oriental monstrosities" by the British press, and would lead to Corona abolishing all forms of execution except for beheading in 1818.

With the fall of Germany, the conquest of Italy, and the willing submission of Iberia, the Coalition of the Rhine held all of mainland Europe. German nationalists rejoiced, savoring the thought of a Greater German Reich with Rapunzel as Kaiserin. Others cringed, fearing the loss of German culture. Coronan rule would inevitably mean the spread of Polish customs, and perhaps the loss of the German identity. When Poland had undergone its final partition a decade before, the idea of Poland had realigned itself to Corona, as the Coronan court was bilingual and celebrated a great deal of Polish traditions. Polish merchants, intellectuals, and warriors had streamed into the Coronan court, bringing their expertise with them. With the power of Corona seemingly indisputable, a new issue was being advanced. First of all, so long as there was no secure land route to Arendelle, Rapunzel's cousins would be at risk-and any land path would pass through Russia as well as Sweden. Secondly, much of Poland had been lost to the Russians in the partitions. Polish nationalism was now at a fever pitch. Everywhere people were whispering that the time was right. The ideals of the French Revolution had great appeal to the long-suffering Polish. It was absolutely necessary that all of Poland be united underneath one ruler. The Polish peasants would suffer no longer under the reign of oppressive and autocratic Tsars. Corona would reclaim the lost Polish clay, and Rapunzel would become the rightful ruler of all the German and Polish peoples. A Greater German Reich would be created to last a thousand years.

An invasion of Russia now seemed inevitable.


	20. Dark of the Night

Anna and several other cavalry officers were playing a game of strip poker. One unfortunate captain had already gone bust, and was now struggling to maintain his dignity. Lasalle only had his pants, underwear, and cavalry saber left. Anna was still fully clothed and armed.

"Full house. Looks like I win again gentlemen. Lasalle, your sword please," said Anna.

"I would rather go naked a hundred times before losing my sword," replied Lasalle.

"Pants then."

Lasalle began to undo his pants, when Sergeant de Orleans ran in, clearly panicked.

"Colonel Hohenzollern, I've lost track of your sister," he said.

"You win this round Lasalle. Adam, you check the usual spots. I've got a hunch on where she is," said Anna.

* * *

Elsa looked over the cliff. The meadow was peaceful and serene. It was nice to be alone. Almost twenty years of isolation had made her used to it. Besides, the air was fresher and it was quieter away from the war camp. She laid down, closed her eyes, and listened to the river below. Time slipped away.

"Oi. Looks like Her Majesty has decided to save us the trouble of cornering her," said an unfamiliar voice. Elsa opened her eyes. There were two men standing in the meadow, middle-aged and burly. One had a strange-looking device that she recognized as one of the flamethrowers from Carrara, and the other had a rifle. She scrambled to her feet and tried to shoot a blast of ice, only for a gout of fire to surge past her head. The meadow was starting to burn.

"Oh, don't worry about the cold, your Majesty. We're very capable of... turning up the heat. Now then, we're going to take our time and enjoy this."

Both of the men laughed.

"Get the hell away from my sister, you creeps!"

Their laughter was cut short by the sharp retort of a shotgun. A slug tore through one of their bodies, spraying bits of entrails onto Elsa, looking every bit like little maggots. The surviving Stabbington turned and tried to open up his flamethrower, but Anna threw her empty shotgun into his face, causing him to jerk back and shoot the flame too high. Anna slid under the fire and punched the man in the gut, causing him to flinch and drop the nozzle, which fell to his side. Anna then threw a haymaker with one hand, which was blocked. But he had opened his side up, and Anna threw a quick jab to his kidney. The meat soaked it and he grunted. He brought his arms down and tried to grab Anna's head, but she pivoted and headbutted the spike of her helmet into the palm of his hand. He screamed and jumped back, giving Anna the time to draw her saber. The Stabbington drew his broadsword. She brought a downward slash on him, which he blocked. He thrusted back, and she dodged, but then he threw a punch with in other hand, hitting Anna. Then, he used another quick slice while Anna was off balance, knocking her saber from her hand. Finally, with one last movement, he brought the sword back for another cut, this one chopping up Anna's right eye. He then flipped the sword around, holding it by the blade, and began to hammer on Anna's helmet with the hilt. Each blow disoriented Anna, and she fell back onto the ground. The man sheathed his sword, and brought the flamethrower's nozzle back up, pressing it against Anna's forehead.

"Any last words before I cook you, girlie?"

"Yeah. I'm an irresponsible drinker!"

Anna spit out an alcoholic mist through the flamethrower's pilot light, which ignited and spread onto the man's clothes. She picked her sword up and slashed at his knees, severing one. Then, with an upward thrust, she drove the feather of the szabla through his heart, and shoved him back. He toppled to the ground, flames making their way to the fuel on his back. Anna broke into a run, and tackled Elsa. They went flying over the cliff. As they fell, the elder Stabbington exploded into a great fireball, disintegrating the pair's corpses.

"Elsa! Snow! Now!"

The river below transmuted into a pile of fresh powder, and a frigid wind slowed their fall. They smashed into the snow. Reason dictated that Anna now say a snappy one liner. She opened her mouth, dry heaved, then passed out.

* * *

"Colonel Hohenzollern? You'll be fine, but you'll never see in that eye again. I suggest you take some leave," said the doctor.

"That's fine. God gave us two eyes for a reason, right? Where's my sister?" asked Anna.

"She's over there, sleeping. She's running a fever, but otherwise there's no lasting damage."

Anna walked over to the bed where her sister was sleeping, and began to speak in a low whisper.

"Hey there Elsa. I really wish that I could say this when you're awake, but I know I can't. When I promised I'd protect you, I meant it. I prepare all of your meals myself, from forage to delivery. There's no such thing as weird meat, just meat I've personally made. Every morning I check up on you. I worry, Elsa. You always try to do everything yourself and solve everyone's problems for them, but we should be a team. You don't have to do it all, Elsa. I'm here for you. I wish you knew that."

Anna leaned over and kissed Elsa on the forehead.

"Sweet dreams, sis."


	21. Dreams

On May 7th 1806, Sweden sued for peace. In exchange for a renunciation of all claims on Pomerania and Pomeralia, and a war indemnity of 40 million francs, Sweden would be allowed to leave the war and would be incorporated into Napoleon's new European system.

40 million francs might seem like an incomprehensibly vast sum. But for a nation, it is a pittance. France spent more than 800 million francs a year, and not all of it on war. Even then, those war expenditures still fed the country. Money passing from hand to hand was the really the passing of goods from hand to hand, and the money that went into the gunsmith's hand or the baker's would soon find itself in another's pocket. Over the course of the Napoleonic Wars, France would spend almost 120 million on ports, nearly 300 million on roads, 30 million on bridges, 120 million on canals and land reclamation, 100 million francs on public works in Paris alone, and 150 million on miscellaneous public works elsewhere. 500 million francs in one year dedicated to the French Army, with 15 million francs for just the purchase of steel to produce cannon. When you consider the vast amounts of money flowing through a government, the question becomes not why officials become corrupt, but why more don't. A theft of 1% of the state budget was a sum to make any pauper rich.

With Corona's new dominance over the German states, all the dominated states of western and southern German were now required to advance 10% of their annual revenue to Corona every year. For example, Bavaria took in roughly 1.8 million pounds of income per annum. In total, that came to almost 1 million pounds of taxes being paid as tribute to Corona. Consider that one chicken could be bought for twelve shillings, and that there are twenty shillings to a pound. That's 1.5 million chickens. You could recreate the legendary bursting of the dam by Queen Rapunzel and King Eugene with chickens instead of water. Now, they didn't do that. But one of the proposals advanced in the Coronan bureaucracy went to that effect. When life gives you shillings, buy chickens.

As for Britain? They imported more than 10 million bushels of grain a year. They exported more than 10 million pounds sterling a year in manufactured goods alone. Britain alone was an island. But Britain was more than Britain, it was Great Britain, head of a global empire, the center of a thousand roads and sea lanes. Money flowed in from all seven seas and all four corners of the world. An army marches on its stomach, but a nation runs on its wealth. And the rule of India by the British East India Company was one of the jewels of this great realm. Robert Maldon was keenly aware of this fact, which was why he was currently presenting all of this to Napoleon. For him, the rebels at Tyrol had not been a tragedy. They had been an encouragement, a sign of things to come. If 12,000 could rise up and fight after such a brief occupation, then what might a people oppressed for years do?

Ancestry is a magic thing. It multiplies. If one man has two children with half of his blood, then those two children have two children with one fourth of his blood, and those four grandchildren have eight children with one eighth of his blood, then very quickly every has a bit of that. Take any old shmuck off the street, and it's very likely he's related in some way to ancient kings. True, the bridge may not happen immediately. Nobility did not like their morganatic marriages. But if a king marries a duchess, and a duke marries a count, and a count marries a baron, then soon the blood has entered the common folk. Robert Maldon was the direct descendant of Timur the Great in that respect. His track back to kingship gave him 1/32th royal blood. In fact, he had blood claims on other thrones too, little 1/128th and 1/1024th pieces written in his genetics. Indeed, you could say that he was an heir of a sort to every throne in India. And so the rightful king (of a kind) prepared to return. Robert Maldon, the man who would fight an empire, the man certain that he could topple the British East India Company.

After almost three years, Anna and Elsa were finally heading home. Robert Maldon was heading home too. Maldonia. The name had a certain majesty to it.


	22. Death at Sea

Everything always looked more suspicious in a burlap sack. Or maybe it just looked suspicious because the sack was chunky and starting to bleed. It was also really suspicious that she was whistling, but whistling was fun. Luckily, Elsa never woke up before seven.

Elsa peeked her head out of her tent and spotted her. Shit. Think of something fast.

"It's a sack of blessings! I play a game where I count my blessings and put them in a bag."

"Why is it leaking?"

"Hope floats. Ice floats. Hope's made of ice, you know, and ice usually melts. Makes sense, right?"

Elsa sniffed the air suspiciously.

"That smells like... copper. Is that blood?"

"Noooo... no. Not blood. There's... there's a bread guy in this sack."

"A bread guy? Why is it bleeding then?"

"Duh silly, the bread guy is dead. I mean, there's no corpse in this sack. Just bread. And a bread guy. A living, not dead bread guy."

Elsa's face cycled through emotions, starting with shock, then disgust, then finally a damning sense of realization.

"Anna... is weird meat... people?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Then why on earth do you have that sack?"

"Be-because... bees. Yeah, bees. Bees and birds. Have I ever told the story about the birds and the bees?"

"This isn't the time-"

"So there's a bunch of birds, and a bunch of bees, right? And the Queen Bee is the leader of the whole hive, and she's got ice powers. And the birds want to have sex with the bees, especially the Queen Bee. But sex isn't really sex, it really means eat, because bees are delicious. Also, eat isn't eat either, because this is a metaphor and eat means kill. So they send birds with knives and guns to have sex with the Queen, and the Queen's sister has to get her hatchet out and have sex with them first, but sex is still killing, ok? And then two of the birds actually find the Queen Bee, and they breathe fire so they're like bird-dragons, so then the Queen Bee knows that there are rape birds everywhere, and then nine months pass and that's where babies come from."

"You've been killing people behind my back this whole time?"

Anna held her hands together sheepishly.

"Well, to be fair, I've been killing people in front of your back too. Remember all those charges I led? Besides, they were assassins."

"How many?"

"Okay, so there was that one awkward boy who kept pacing behind the camp, and I thought he had a gun but it was really a bunch of creepy porn drawings of us, then there was the Chinaman, and also that one guy with the eyebrows, the jugglers, the fat one... Hmmm... Ummm... Nineteen?"

"Nineteen...? Oh god, how long has this been happening?"

"Remember when I showed you all those soldiers that sang? The sergeant there also keeps track of you. Also, he used to be a big old monster man. I think you two would really hit it off if you talked. He had an angry peasant mob after him, you had angry peasants, he had a curse put on him, you can give people magic curses, he was a shut-in, you were a shut-in..."

"At least we can finally go back to Arendelle and put all of this behind us. It's been years since I had chocolate."

"Yeah... about that. I'm going to take a year break, but after that I'm reenlisting. Napoleon is promoting me to Grand Marshal, and the men will need me for the invasion of Russia."

"You're serious about this?"

"They're fighting for their dreams. I've started this, now I've got to stick things through."

"I'll reenlist with you then."

"You mean it? You're the best!"

Elsa gave a sardonic smile.

"Someone has to make sure you don't go on a rampage."

The dead man's head rolled out of the sack and Anna picked it up, sticking it on her hand. She projected her voice onto the meat puppet.

"Hey, the lady doesn't go around killing all the time."

"You're using a dead man's head as a puppet."

"I think you should be proud that I learned ventriloquism. And how to say ventriloquism."

* * *

The sisters prepared to cross the sea. Across the sea, the fate of Napoleon's empire was being decided. It is hard to describe what leads to greatness. Who could've said that Lord Nelson would become a legend? He was brave, but many brave men live just to die in the uncaring muds of a bloodied battlefield. He was innovative, but countless innovators are outshone and ultimately replaced by their innovations. He loved his men, but love can blind and lead to error. He was vain. He had an affair. Any one of these traits could describe thousands of men, and taking the conjunction only narrows things too much. Great men are not cast in a single mold, and for every one that resembled Nelson, there were a thousand others that were his opposite.

Naval battles had ceased to be conclusive. Although ships would often clash, the losers could flee without major harm. Some even suspected that decisive victories at sea were no longer even possible. But Nelson was bold, and he had a new idea. Instead of lining up his cannons against the enemy and trading blows until one side retreated, he would smash into them with a column and cut off their escape.

Fire ships had also fallen out of favor. Ships could become massive bonfires, but they were also maneuverable, and could avoid the obvious and short ranged threat of flame. But, if these weaknesses were countered, then fire could rule the day like it had in the storied years of Byzantium. With the French retreat blocked off, they would have to make long, slow turns to continue. During that time, small sloops-of-war could close the distance and begin their work. Disorganized and aflame, the British ships could destroy the French at their leisure. Thus the fleet was divided. Two squadrons of ships of the line would split the French navy, then sloops equipped with Greek Fire would throw the enemy fleet into chaos. The enemy would be unable to fight a proper battle, nor would it be able to retreat. The enemy would have a chance to direct raking fire through Nelson's ships, but even if it did so and disabled the warships, the sloops would still set the distracted enemies ablaze. And once the British ships reached the enemy line, they would reply with their own raking fire down the entire French line. Sloops had fallen out of favor for full engagements, but in this battle they would be used to terrifying effect. The column approach was risky, but would ultimately devastate the French.

Thus, Nelson put to paper one of the boldest naval battle plans ever conceived. During the battle, he would be gravely wounded. If he had lived, perhaps his flaws would have eventually marred his image, or maybe a defeat would strip him of all his glory. But he died. He had lived as a man, but in death, he would be a legend.


	23. Editorials: Intermission

1807 would be fairly peaceful as far as battle was concerned. The continent had been lost to the Third Coalition, which was soon officially replaced by the Fourth Coalition following Sweden's withdrawal and the forced exile of their now hated King Gustav. The Austrian and British were no longer contesting the continent, and Great Britain's naval dominance was now unquestionable. An end to direct fighting did not end the war for hearts and minds, however.

Hans had been quite industrious. Through a series of sham projects, corrupt officials, and "gifts", he had managed to siphon pieces of the Southern Isles budget from age 12 all the way until he was locked up in the dungeon. With intelligent investing and the security of overseas banks, his tiny fortune had multiplied. Money couldn't buy happiness, but it could buy a variety of tools to acquire it. Mercenaries had broken into the Southern Isles dungeons for him. He had greased a few palms and acquired a boat to England. From there, he had purchased fake documents and created a web of proxies and false identities. With those, he bought out a major newspaper and a variety of minor ones. Hans poured himself a glass of wine and relaxed in his study. The fire burned with a comfortable warmth.

Normally, the presence of rival newspapers discourages fraud. One paper can print a lie, but the other will print the truth, and the truth-teller will gain in prestige and power. But if enough newspapers can be forced to collaborate, then lies will be verified instead. Who would doubt something printed in ten separate papers? Even if someone tried to track back the sources, they'd find themselves mired in a web of fake people. If they pressed harder, all they'd find was his original fake identity, a mysterious oligarch, which was a satisfactory answer for the paranoid. His eighteen assassins had failed, he mused, but character assassination was just as good, if not better. No matter who won the war, the lies would stay. The lies would write the story for future generations and would persist in the public memory. No matter what happened, their names would be marred for eternity.

Did the Hohenzollerns practice cannibalism? Certainly. Were they incestuous? Oh, absolutely. Were the Germanic courts full of orgies, decadence, and blood sports? Can there be any doubt? Did Rapunzel eat babies? It was guaranteed. Did King Eugene steal from the poor and give to the rich? All monarchs (except good old George) did, but he did it the most. Was Napoleon a midget? Sure, just check the figures. It didn't matter if the standards of measurement were a little different. The best lies had grains of truth. Queen Elsa and Queen Rapunzel were both hellspawn changelings sent to replace actual rulers. The Arendelle royal family engaged in regular bestiality. Elsa kidnapped and molested children in her ice palace. Human sacrifices were common, even expected. The Germans had reverted back to their ancient pagan roots and had shown themselves for the barbarians they really were. Even now they engaged in sun worship and satanic rituals. Rapunzel was the result of an affair between the devil and the Queen Dowager. These were kingdoms where royalty married peasants and horses led men. The natural order had been well and thoroughly overturned, replaced with a devilish mockery. The good Swedish king had been "exiled" because he had figured it out, and men had been sent to kill him. The French Revolution was really as demonic as it seemed-why else would they try to affect the overthrow of Christianity with some religion of reason and execute so many? The French were the ones that originally turned America against its loving mother country, and they continued their vicious puppeteering. The Germans had destroyed Rome, a great civilization, so long ago, and the time had come for them to destroy modern Europe. Unlike the proud British and the Romano-British King Arthur, the French were descended from Frankish barbarians. Now Europe was in danger of falling under a thousand years of darkness. Hans took another sip of wine.

As for Hans, his legend grew. The papers told tales of a boy born with a heart so naturally noble that all the vile temptations and overripe strumpets of the German courts could not sway it. The boy was bullied by his brothers every day, and was almost sacrificed to the devil to gain his favor. His bastard father was always caught up in his schemes, and his godfather, Duke Weselton, was no better. The boy lived as a pawn. When the demon had awoken in Arendelle, he had been the only one brave enough to try and stop it. For that, they had tried to execute him thrice. Each time, God had intervened to save him. It was spectacular and unbelievable, which is why it would sell. Hans had found that people preferred sensationalism and wild stories so long as they had passed some minimum level of credibility. Hans would become a folk hero, and the restless men of England would flock to his cause. Once he had an army, he could attack. Two men stood between him and his birthright, the others were inconsequential. His father, and his godfather.

After almost two hundred years, Denmark would finally be reunited. Hans savored the flavor of the wine. It was a good one.


	24. Experiment

The clipper slowly drifted into the bay, flying the flag of a neutral nation. As it drew closer to the harbor, it raised its flags and waited. After a few moments, the fort signaled back. Towers flanking the bay ground to life, their gears struggling to crank. A great spiked chain burst from the sea, dark and rusted. Ripples spread through the bay as its two brothers joined it in touching the sky. The lonely clipper passed under, flanked by the modernized Bergenhus, which now bristled with guns, and a newly constructed star fort.

The city was pitch black, every window boarded up. The only sound was the muffled thumping of boots as soldiers patrolled the streets. The market stalls and flower beds were gone, replaced by stakes and barricades. The mountain roads were no longer safe, having been well and thoroughly mined. Anyone wanting to leave or enter would have to be guided by soldiers using special charts. After the war, mine sweepers would be sent up to clear the fields, but not all of the mines would be caught. To this day, the Norwegian government cautions tourists against hiking in the North mountains, lest they join the casualty list of a long dead war. Walls, ditches, and other earthworks had been constructed along the mountain paths, allowing allied soldiers to harry the enemy every step of the way. The moon had hidden its face from the world, and the lanterns the sailors now lit could not compensate for its loss.

Anna rode her horse down the ramp. Kristoff was waiting for her. His big strong arms wrapped around her and carried her back home. Elsa shuffled down the ramp and walked back to the palace. That night, she dreamt of snow.

Nationalism is a difficult subject to tackle. There is an ethnic nationalism, in which a people form a nation, but in the distant past, many tribes existed where only one "unified" group does now. At what point is blood assimilated? There is a civic nationalism in which citizens are the nation, but what determines the right of a nation to expand or to splinter? If it's defined by something as fickle as public opinion, then does it have any sort of stability? What determines the character of a people? The geography? The nature of their government? Some inborn characteristic? When do individual cultures lose their identity? What is a culture?

Each snowflake is unique. Despite this, there are certain patterns that emerge. Not all frozen water is created equally. Depending on conditions, it can be fluffy snow or unbreakable ice. Ice can be clear, cloudy, or even black. There is such infinite variety in what is all water. As Elsa lay in bed, eyes wide open, thoughts churned by a rhythmic pounding heard through the thin walls, the figures and fractals of snow mathematics began to make themselves clear. The snow lived. Elsa could give it life, make it think. Snow was not so different from man.

That night, Elsa began a thirty year project. In 1838, her book, Treatise of Nations, would be published. Using complex mathematical models and equations, and descriptions of snow through rudimentary forms of chaos theory, fractal theory, and recursion, it attempted to adequately predict and explain the behavior of population groups and how structures and hierarchies naturally form. To this day it still considered a historical landmark, the first serious and in-depth attempt to mathematize the social sciences. Math students even now are often brought to tears by the elegant simplicity of the formulas presented.

It is a slim and austere book, but word for word, it is one of the bloodiest books in history. Together with The Communist Manifesto, it would be one of the intellectual causes of the revolutions of 1848, and it has been cited by men as far apart as Martin Luther King and Pol Pot.

Elsa was a living embodiment of ice, which was merely frozen water. Human history had been dominated by water. Water fed crops, moved goods, was even the primary component of human bodies. Cities had been founded on rivers and oceans. Where water went, so did men, and where water disappeared, life withered away. But the world was changing. That year, Fulton would demonstrate his steamboat, and an early internal combustion engine would be prototyped. No longer would men be tied to the tyrannies of a fickle sea. Canals would be replaced by railroads, and boats by cars and planes. With steel in hand, men could now reshape the world in their image.

The Treatise of Nations is more than just a book. It is an admission by a queen barely old enough to be a woman that the world was changing. It is an acceptance of obsolescence, as an age of ideas and iron replaced one of family politics and kings. The world was changing, and it could not ever be the same again.


	25. Expansion of the Front

The Ottoman Empire had watched the events of the Napoleonic Wars with great concern. Selim III had been a great admirer of French ideals and western militaries, but the invasion of Egypt by Napoleon had proven that French men paled in comparison to French ideas.

Selim III had reformed the Ottoman army, and the newly reformed soldiers had been the only ones to give the French significant trouble. By making these reforms, he had also made many enemies. The Janissaries, once mere elite soldiers, had transformed into a political faction. With populist support behind them, the Janissaries led a coup deposing Selim early in 1807. However, the reign of the new Sultan Mustafa IV would not last long. Just over a decade before, the Ottomans had fought both Austria and Russia. Harsh times made for odd bedfellows. The Sultan's cousin, Mahmud, had been dispatched to open up diplomatic talks with Austria. These talks became ever more urgent as Coronan troops overran Austria, bringing ambitious Corona to the Ottoman Empire's borders. Mahmud's friend and ally, Alemdar Mustafa Pasha immediately summoned his Albanian and Bosnian retinues to invade the capital, but Mahmud did him one better. Austrian troops attacked, ending the reign of Mustafa before it had even really begun. Mustafa executed Selim and then committed suicide rather than be captured by the Austrians. With Selim and Mustafa dead, Mahmud was the obvious and rightful heir. Thus the reign of Mahmud II began.

From the outset, his situation was precarious. His armies had been weakened by wars against Russia, Austria, and France. The forces of populism and reactionism that had deposed Selim were still lurking, indeed, they had even been strengthened by his use of foreign aid. A government relies on its monopoly on force, but challenging the military meant putting that at risk. A hundred peoples lived under the Ottoman banner: Azeris, Armenians, Turks, Greeks, Arabs, Egyptians, Georgians, and the power of nationalism was rising. To the west, Morocco, a US ally, looked hungry for land. The Ottoman Empire was in disarray, and this would be the perfect chance for Moroccan troops to invade the Ottoman vassal states that dwelled on the North African shore.

If the Coronans were successful in reuniting Poland and waging war using nationalism as a justification, then a thousand tiny nations would spring up and the Ottoman Empire would disintegrate. If the Empire was to survive, Corona would have to fail. Decisive action had to be taken. In order to prevent future insurrections, Mahmud had all Janissaries killed in their sleep, in an action that came to be called the Auspicious Incident. The army was replenished to a strength of 200,000 through mass conscription. With Austrian guns backing him, the officer corps was purged of disloyal elements. Next, Mahmud signed the Austro-Ottoman Secret Treaty. Austrian troops would train the new Ottoman Army. In exchange, Mahmud would strike as soon as the French and Coronan armies were overextended. Ottoman soldiers would flood into occupied Austria, then surge north and take Corona itself. Furthermore, both the Ottomans and the Austrians agreed to protect each other from the growing power of nationalism, and to actively suppress all nationalist revolts. After all, the Austrian Empire was multi-ethnic as well, and the collapse of the Ottomans would send a sign to nationalist rebels lurking with Hapsburg lands.

Portugal had always been a traditional ally of England. With British naval dominance now secured, Portugal openly sided with the United Kingdom, brazenly defying Napoleon's edicts. Without naval power, Napoleon would be forced to march through Spain. Spain was already a fair-weather ally at best. It seemed unlikely that the forage-as-you-go Grand Armee would make a good impression on the peninsula.

Across the sea, America grew weary. It was unable to project a serious force to the European conflict, and the American front was really not much of a front at all. Despite their independence, the United States was still an integral trade partner of Britain, and the two economies remained intertwined. A brisk smuggling business had blossomed. The people were growing tired of paying higher prices for their goods, and a white peace seemed to be coming soon. Napoleon had bought loyalty with land, but land does not fill bellies and warm bodies unless it is tended, and the nation was still working on peopling the land it already had. The government prepared an invasion of Canada, to try and recoup some of what the war had cost. If that failed then peace was just over the horizon.

A world away, Robert Maldon agitated. He had already found allies. Near Fort Vellore, some sepoys had been angered by the change in dress uniform. It had violated the honor of the increasingly caste and honor obsessed Indian soldiers. He had convinced them that it was not in their best interests to rebel at the moment. Instead, they, and others, would wait. When the time was right, the entire country would rise up in revolution. The uniform change, which offended both Hindus and Muslims, was clearly just a prelude to more sweeping changes that would destroy the caste system entirely. Indeed, British cash reserves and manpower were being drained by the Napoleonic Wars. Was it entirely unreasonable to assume that soon Indian soldiers would be sent abroad, an act that would make them unclean? Was it so hard to believe that customs were intentionally being defiled as to lower resistance for this next act of shame? As Maldon toured the country, tensions began to rise.


	26. Enlistment

Olgierd Mlynarczyk hummed softly to himself, breathing in the sweet autumn air. He whittled away at a block of wood. Work kept the hands busy and the soul good. He swept the knife across the wood, shaping it into complex shapes and beautiful patterns. He made the wood smooth and lacquered it. His employer, Mr. Kalischer, wanted only the best.

The recruiter was in town. His eyes flashed bright with lightning, and the buttons on his uniform sparkled. His hair was graying with experience, and his saber was heavy with the weight of lives, both of friends lost and enemies slain. Zygmunt was entranced.

"Wherever the sun shines, your Queen is with you! The whole world is touched by the omni-benevolent rays of the sun, but Corona is most blessed. God is with our people. God has always been with our people. Was the salvation of our most beloved queen not an act of God? Was her return anything short of a miracle? Our people are a blessed people. The Russians sit upon our rightful lands. They are men of ice and snow. What does the ice do when the sunlight falls upon it? It melts! So shall the strong men of Corona melt the Muscovite usurpers that now occupy the homeland! So shall the defenses of Russia melt! Napoleon himself said that one Polish hussar was stronger than ten other cavalrymen. Let us now show the world that we are stronger than one hundred men! The sun shines upon us! Praise the sun! God smiles upon us! Glory to God!"

Zygmunt Mlynarczyk signed his life over to the state, and returned home to tell his father.

"Papa, papa! The army men were in town today, and I'm going with them," said Zygmunt.

Olgierd's jaw dropped.

"What are you even saying? Have you even thought this through?"  
"Of course I have! This is our chance to reclaim our home. Didn't you used to live in the occupied lands?"

"You're not going on some fool adventure for a piece of dirt."

"I've already signed the contract."

"Mr. Kalischer is a good man and very rich. He can fix that problem. You will stay here and learn how to craft."

"I'm a grown man now and I can make my own decisions. The world is calling, Papa. The fatherland is calling."

"I didn't want to tell you this, but I had a brother. He believed in the new ideas too. I still remember how he dreamed, how he whispered to the baby in his wife's belly. He went to war in the revolts, and I never saw him or his family again. Don't do this, son. Nothing good can come of it."

"No. It is our time now, papa. The colors of the world are changing now! It is a springtime for the nations!"

"Do you know what I lost to the Russians? My house and some savings, that was all. But when my brother left, I lost my family. Land is worthless, what even is land? My ancestors were millers, I am not. My ancestors lived there, and I do not. What matters is that we live our lives as best we can."

"Maybe if you had fought with him, he would've succeeded."

"I forbid it."

"Father forbids, but _Fatherland_ demands it. I am going."

"You are not."

"God is with us."

"God has cursed us and I do not know why. You fail and the world will take even more from us."

"Do you see the sun shining so bright?"

"You will stay."

"It is the dawn of a new light..."

"Please. Stay."

"And the spirit of the nation that is calling us to fight!"

"What will I tell your little sister?"

"Tell her that her brother is giving her a homeland for Christmas."

His father stretched his hand out, but he was already marching away.


	27. E5

The world drifted in and out of fog, and only the harshest light could pierce it. Even then, it lasted only a moment. The man paused at the door frame for a second, entranced by the strange light. What fae creation was this?

"Are you okay my lord?"

Ah. Yes.

"Of course Mabel. Merely checking the gas supply."  
"It's Gretchen, my lord. Mother passed away twenty years ago."

Was it? So it was. He shone the lantern out and stumbled onwards. Every day the storm grew, but it would not take him yet. His mind was still his own.

He found the chess table in perfect order. Or was it? Each side was supposed to have twelve pawns with their king. But that was it, the game was in progress.

He surveyed the situation. He couldn't quite piece it together, but he was sure of something. They had both lost a great deal of material, that was certain. Ah, yes. It was the end for both of them. That much he could be certain of. He had nothing left, just a lonely king. The lord of the Southern Isles was not doing much better, with only two knights. What a curious position.

It was impossible for him to win, but his opponent couldn't checkmate him either. Nor was it guaranteed to be a stalemate. The King could beat him, but only if he cooperated. Ridiculous. He didn't even remember how it happened.

Until he did. Another beam of light peeked through the syphilitic veil shrouding his mind. The King had forced it. Out of all his twelve pawns, he had abused one the hardest, forcing it far ahead until it was ready to promote. By that time, they had both bled everything. All the King had left was a knight. If he had chosen a Queen, his victory would be assured. He hadn't. He chose a knight. Ridiculous. Weselton would take the tie, and continue his thirty year loss-less streak. Smug in victory, he let his mind sail away.

The jungle air was thick and damp. The bugs swarmed through the air, taunting the Duke. How long ago had it been? Thirty years? Forty? Fifty? Christian was there. He had laughed about something. What was it?

"Oh trust me, the ladies love the dance. Indies women are wild about the chicken dance-or should I say, the cock dance? They worship animals you know? Savages. Sexy, sexy savages."

"Did I ever tell you were ridiculous?"  
"You mean devilishly handsome and a credit to adventurers everywhere."

"Mike, you're ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? I'm a one man weasel town! And all the weasels in residence have one eye, if you catch my meaning...?"

"Mike, you're ridiculous."  
"Two balls on all those weasels, my friend. You know what letter Duke starts with? The D."

Weselton swung the grappling hook around, then tossed it up onto the cliff. He gave it two quick yanks, then began to climb. The young King followed him.

"Quetzelcocktl. I'm just saying, some of these tribes have never seen the white meat before. White can't be beat, mate."

"Is that all you think about?"  
"Better than your shitty dream. Oh, look at me, I'm so fancy. I'm going to be King of Denmark."

"It's the land of my ancest-"

"I can paint slightly more of the map in my color! I have ten soldiers instead of five! I'm not miniscule anymore, just tiny!"

"I get it. I still think it's better than your dream."

"Oh please, sleeping with a lot of women isn't my whole dream. I'm going to kill mythic beasts and topple sorcerer-kings. I'll find the Lost City of Gold. I'll be richer than a thousand Cathayan princes. The whole world will chant my name. No magic can stop him, no sword can slow him. I'm going to be the greatest adventurer of all time!"

"Riiiight."

What was her name? He should have stayed. There were many girls there, but she was her favorite. At the time he could barely bring himself to touch her. She was fair-skinned and red-haired, right? No, that wasn't it. Skin like gleaming copper. Hair darker than the caves of Chandrapore. Eyes that burned with a feisty spark. She could've been a fighter. They could've traveled the world, seen the cloud palaces of Shangri-La and battled ancient beast-man tribes in darkest Africa.

He had been afraid. In the end, he had always been afraid. The world would have laughed at the Dukeling that married some Indian at the edge of the world. He had forgotten why he cared.

Later that night Christian was attacked. It was a bear. He had struck at the snake with his sword, but the bolt of his crossbow plinked at the snowman with no effect. It had bought time though, and Christian managed to kill the roc with his pistol. Still, it had been too close.

"What will you do if I die?" asked Christian.

"What are you going on about now?"

"If I die. It's bound to happen some day."

"You're being morbid again. We're young! We're strong! What kind of an old man fears death?"

"An old man?"

"Exactly! The kind of men who've only known regrets, who wear toupees and hide from the world. We'll never be like that. We don't need to be scared of death."

"Humor me."

"Oh fine. I guess... I guess I would try to fulfill your dream."

"I would too."

"Goodnight."

"Night."

It had been a stupid promise. Barely made any sense. How do you even make a dead man king? A dead man certainly couldn't be a famous adventurer. But they had made it. He had meant it too.

"Mabel?"

"Gretchen, my lord."

"Ah... yes. Could you repair the old steam boiler in the basement?"  
"Hmm? My lord, you never could get it to do anything useful."

"Be a dear and fix it."

"As you wish, my lord. I only hope it doesn't explode and kill us all."

"Also, send King Christian a message. Tell him that I concede the match... and... and... I remember. Tell him that I remember."

"As you wish, my lord."

Weselton smiled. He and his friend would meet again soon.


	28. Famine: Intermission

As 1807 rolled into 1808, the combined forces of Corona and France prepared to cross the Neman. With 500,000 men in the Grande Armee, 200,000 Coronan regulars, 35,000 men from the allied northern German states, and 65,000 men from the southern German states pressed into service, it was the largest force continental Europe had ever seen. With a grand total of 800,000 men, it seemed impossible that the Russian army could stand against that through any conventional means.

Napoleon had made plans to provision his troops, with 50 days of food and water traveling behind the army in 31 massive supply trains. Grand Marshal Hohenzollern, fresh from the birth of her first son, Olaf Hohenzollern, famously said that it would be a good way to burn off baby fat. Nobody on the French side could have predicted the depth of the Russian's resolve. The strategy was the brain child of Minister Michael Andreas de Tolly, and he would eventually die for it. To this day, he is remembered as a Russian folk hero. The Russian army would retreat, with cossacks riding around the countryside destroying all food as they went. Over a million Russian peasants would starve, but the Motherland itself would prevail. To this day, battles like the Battle of Vilnius and the Siege of Moscow are still appalling in the sheer amount of casualties, with the month-long Siege of Moscow itself being compared to the infamous months-long Battle of Kyoto.

At the same time, the Ottoman Empire prepared to make good on its promise to strike. The conscript army had been trained somewhat, and the Sultan hoped that valor would replace any gaps in training.

1808 would be known as the Long Year.

And I looked and saw a man on a black horse. He held a scale in his hand, and I heard him calling. Three pounds and a shilling for hardtack, ten pounds for beans. No water without victory.


	29. Forlorn Hope

The Jerusalem of the North was burning. By week's end, half a millennium of history would be gone, scattered ashes in the wind.

The army was split into three major flanks, with cavalry scouting ahead. The Russians had planned on cavalry superiority, but they had not counted on the skill of the Polish hussars present in the Coronan army. At roughly 10:00AM on April 4th, 1808, Coronan cavalry made contact with Russian forces. There were two hours of light skirmishing, during which the commands of both armies heard about the battle. The Russian army, situated much closer, began a brisk march, while the French, which up until now had been marching at a moderate pace, began a grueling forced march up towards Vilnius. At around noon, the French cavalry commanders held a vote and decided to mount a more aggressive battle with the enemy cossacks, with the vote of Lasalle being the tie-breaker. The two cavalry units began to clash within the streets of Vilnius, and in such twisting, narrow confines, the advantage of ranged weaponry diminished. Men were hacked to bits, trampled, and speared as horsemen rode through the streets. Unfortunately, the Russian army arrived after only an hour and a half of this fighting. 220,000 Russian regulars entered the north end of the city and joined the fight. Lasalle was shot dead during the first Russian advance.

The French cavalry were whipped into a furious rage by the death of such a beloved commander, and resolved to hold the city until reinforcements arrived. Street by street they contested the town, with those who had lost their horses retreating into buildings and sniping from the windows. Charge after charge went through enemies as they attempted to move forward, and the Russians were forced back into the forested green areas of Vilnius many times that day. But it would inflict a heavy toll. The main flank arrived just as night was setting in, with the cavalry still in possession of the southern part of Vilnius. Out of the 45,000 cavalry present, 16,000 had died. 7,000 Russian horsemen had also lost their lives, along with 2,500 infantry. The first day of the Battle of Vilnius was over, having claimed 25,500 souls.

Battle resumed as soon as dawn broke on the second day. The Russians had set up along the Neria, which ran down the center of the city. The awkward bend in the river's west, east of the modern Vingis park, was left unmanned. Instead, a line of infantry waited behind. If an enemy attempted to cross the river and flank from that crossing, then the reserves would move in and sandwich the would be attackers. The first attempt was made to cross at their main line, with snow golems spearheading the charge. However, Greek Fire melted the golems so thoroughly that they boiled into steam, cooking the hapless men behind them. Their skin turned red, blistered, and finally burst, spilling guts and fecal matter into the river. As the morning stretched on, a second probe was made at Zverynas. The crossing there was successful, but the forlorn hope was caught in Marshal Tolly's trap, and torn to bits. Still, the attack had held more promise than the last, and men began to stream across the river. At this point, the Russians unveiled their new weapon. The British had ordered 500 Nock guns produced at the beginning of the war, but their massive recoil had made them impractical for hand held use. However, with the inclusion of Elsa into the Napoleonic Armies, it soon became clear that a counter was necessary. Fire worked, but stocks of fire were limited, while the ice was theoretically infinite. The next proposed solution was to combine the tactic of incendiaries with fire being laid down on and near the Queen at all times, forcing her to keep her head down and restricting her freedom of movement. Unfortunately, the infantry firearms of the time were inadequate to the task. That being said, a new device was soon conceived. By following up on the multi-barreled design of the Nock gun, and by mounting it on cannon wheels, a larger form of the device could be deployed, with multiple triggers so that the barrels could be fired individually. This primitive machine gun was impractical against most infantry, but it would serve as the first use of modern suppressive fire, and it is credited with reducing Elsa's effectiveness for the entire rest of the Napoleonic Wars. The Russians began to pull men away from other parts of the line and deploy their reserves to deal with the forces at Zverynas. Finally, when almost 45,000 had crossed, the entire part of the city near the crossing was set alight. Separated from their allies, the attackers were crushed. The Russian army was now in total disarray, but the Neria river was covered in fire and filled with rotting corpses. Men refused to cross the firestorm, and the moment was lost. 65,000 Russians and 50,000 French were dead, with no gains for either side.

Napoleon's reinforcements were coming close on the third day. The Russians decided to scorch the city and retreat. The French attempted pursuit, but were stymied by fire mines and barricades in their path. The fire found fuel in the many forests scattered through the city, and soon the whole city was burning. Unwilling to push through a burning city, the men stayed put. There were a few more skirmish actions around the outskirts of the city, and even a fight at Trakai Castle to the west, but for the Russians, the battle was over. Another 6000 dead on each side, mostly at Trakai, brought the total casualties of the three days to 154,500 men. According to legend, Lake Galve was haunted. If it was not before, it was now.

The battlefield was a vision of carnage. The city had been reduced to burnt-out whispering husks. The river was a slimy green, thick with putrefaction and flammable oils. Parts of it had even degraded to a thick slush of blood, intestines, and feces. Everywhere you could hear the moaning of men slowly dying, guts torn out or limbs missing. They were parched to a man, but there was not enough water. The supply trains had been unable to keep up with the forced march, something that would become a recurring theme in the campaign. Swarms of mosquitoes descended upon the city, blackening the sky with their presence. There was no food. Although the cossacks had been caught, they had done their job well, and the countryside was barren. The water was all tainted. The city sat at the joining of the Vilnia and Neria river, but both had been rendered undrinkable. Those who dared risk it soon caught dysentery and died dehydrated and wallowing in their own filth. Dogs, abandoned by frightened owners fleeing the city, ran rampant, nipping at the still writhing bodies of wounded men. The rot had condensed into a miasmatic fume that now hung over the city, a fog made of disease and the stench of death. Burnt gnarled hands had replaced the forests of Vilnius. The medicine was in the back, and even if it wasn't, there was not enough food and water to nurse the injured back to health. Many would choose a quick mercy killing if they could get one, but the dying were too numerous for the living to cull. The soldiers were dirty and covered in sweat, but there was no bathing. Only a fool would consider the water clean. Without the ability to clean themselves, lice began to infest the men. With lice came typhoid. More men would die of Typhoid than of any other cause. To this day, three days in Vilnius is used in German to denote a profoundly unpleasant experience. The Jerusalem of the North had become a hell on earth.

Nor was the battle over.


	30. Fracture

The Battle of Vilnius had far-reaching implications. Most relevant was the death of Field Marshal Tolly. During the battle, a spark had spread onto his command tent, which collapsed in on him, burning him alive. He was swiftly replaced by the skilled General Kutuzov. With the losses taken by French cavalry, the Cossacks could now continue the original strategy unhindered. The battle had removed Napoleon's reputation for invincibility. No longer was he unstoppable. Napoleon had rushed into the battle hoping for a decisive battle to end the war quickly. His hopes went up in smoke as the city did. The heavy losses taken by the Russians meant they would enter a full retreat back to St. Petersburg, burning everything as they went. There they could link up with naval reinforcements and form a larger force. No matter what he did, Napoleon would suffer. If he retreated from Russia, it would mean admitting defeat. If that happened, all of Europe would regain its courage and he would be swamped. If he marched slowly, he could keep up with his supplies and keep his army fresh, but there was insufficient forage, and his wagons would soon be depleted. Thus Napoleon decided to force a march all the way to St. Petersburg. If he was successful there, he would still have his decisive victory, and he would still be able to force his enemies to sue for peace.

There was discontent in the camp. Elsa wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep forever. The last few days had been rough. When she was fighting, people were shooting at her or around her, or trying to set her on fire, and when she wasn't, she was making blocks of ice to stick in thirsty mouths. The acrid smell of smoke wafted to her nose, but she ignored it. The scent had been commonplace during the battle. Then she heard horses and men screaming. Again, all too normal. Then came the clanging of steel and steel, very close to her tent, and she began to worry. Then a cannonball went soaring through the top of her tent and she shot straight out of bed. The battery had only been gauging the range.

"Elsa, what are you doing? It's not safe out here!" shouted Anna.

The next shot was a real one. A spray of canister shot riddled one of the soldiers with holes, and he collapsed into a bloody heap. The camp was in chaos, the air ringing with the din of melee.

"Get to cover! Heads down!" ordered the Grand Marshal.

Elsa created an ice shield out of thin air, and the next canister embedded its payload into, pincushioning the wall.

"What's the situation?" asked Elsa.

"Some sort of mutiny's happening!" replied Anna.

"So who do we shoot?"

"Anyone shooting at us!"

With that, Anna wheeled around and put a bullet between the eyes of a rifleman. She spun the pistol in her hand and blew away the smoke.

"Can you push that ice shield forward quickly?"

"I think so, why?"

"Men, affix bayonets and follow the shield. We're charging the hill!"

The ice shield took off, the soldiers following close behind. The cannoneers leaped to the side as the wall of ice smashed apart, only to be confronted with angry troops. One of them gasped as Anna ran him through with a bayonet. Another tried to save his friend, but a swift kick to the groin stopped that, and a quick decapitation stopped that for good. One tried to grapple the Marshal, but she bit his arm and he howled in pain, before a rifle butt to head smashed in his skull. The gun was secure.

"Elsa, see any rebels?"

"How do I tell who the rebels are?"

"Look for anyone fighting our loyal officers!"

"I don't know any of the officers! I never leave my tent!"

"I'll take care of it. Rotate the gun 60 degrees CCW, you see those men fighting Fabrefond? What shot do we have?"

A soldier rummaged through the ammunition nearby.

"No more canister or grape, sir, only regular and chain," he said.

"Damn it all, give them whiff of chain," replied the Grand Marshal.

The soldier retrieved the chain shot and the team made ready.

"One!" shouted Anna.

The gun was leveled at the rebel scum.

"Two!"

One of the men cleaned the barrel with a sponge, wiping away powder and other residues.

"Three!"

The gun was loaded with the chain shot and powder.

"Four!"

The spongeman rammed the shot down while the fourth gunner prevented a flame. Then, the number four man pricked a hole in the powder bag.

"FIVE! Fire!"

The match was lit, and the gun made its report. The chain hurtled out. Normally, it would be used to destroy ships, wrapping and cutting through masts and sails. It weaved a savage path through the air, cleaving and snarling at the sky. It tumbled down to earth, bounced, and nipped at the nearest foe. It seized around his arm, tearing it off and reducing it to shreds before bounding cheerfully into the next enemy, who was sliced in half.

"One! Two! Three! Four! FIVE! FIRE!"

On and on it went, each blast of the cannon bringing death to another few. One, two, three, four, five, fire! One, two, three, four, five, fire! Like the beating of a drum or the beating of a heart, it was regular, clean, and methodical. It tapped out a rhythm and asked only that the soldiers dance to its tune. One by one, the clusters of rebels were cut down. Finally, the last group of mutineers threw down their guns and surrendered. The camp grew silent. 12,000 were dead or dying, and 24,000 would be too wounded to fight on. Anna stopped, sighed, and pulled out a canteen of vodka.

"How are you so nonchalant about this?"

Anna put her arm around Elsa's shoulder.

"It's easy sis. All my life has been a series of doors in my face!"

"Are you going to sing?"

"And then suddenly I bump into..."

"...You?"

"Gunpowder. Gunpowder blows up doors."

"Are you going to get engaged to your gun now?"

"Don't be silly Elsa, I'm already married. Do you remember when you went all icy and froze the palace? Everyone thought you were crazy except me. I believed in you. Everyone thought that Italy would be a bunch of city states forever, but now Napoleon's king. Everyone thought that Corona would never get an heir, but then Rapunzel showed up out of nowhere. The world can send all the shitty stuff it has at you, and you can either smile about it or get sad and give up. Something's going to break sooner or later, and it's not going to be this smile."

"But..."

"I know what you're going to say, and lots of other things will break. Based on personal testing, this includes spines, faces, hearts, skulls, arms, fingers, legs, feet, horses, pelvises, and kidneys."

"That's not what I was going to say at all."

"So maybe I'm not so good at the finishing sentences door. I'll just keep smiling and sooner or later that door will blow up too."

"I think I understand."

"Of course you do! You're my smart, beautiful sister and I love you and you can do no wrong except for when you leave the toilet seat up."

"Why would I leave the toilet seat up?"

"I... umm... hmm... Sven lied to me, huh?"

"Reindeers can't talk."

"Then we have a mystery on our hands."

"Anna, you're the best sister a girl could have. I love you too."


	31. Forced March

Tengri is the religion of the wide blue sky, but if an observer looked up right then, he'd conclude that there was no god. Of course, the Mongols and their religion were long gone from Russia by that point. The ground was a thick mud, the kind that sucks away at your boots and makes every step a chore. Some of the wagons were getting trapped in it and breaking down. There had been unseasonably heavy rains, and the air was heavy and humid. The rains kept the bugs away, but it was a false mercy. After every rain they came back in even larger swarms.

Typhus was spreading through the camp like wildfire. The bright rash was a marker for death, and soldiers would make every attempt to avoid those they knew had it. It didn't help. The camp was woefully unhygienic. The disease-carrying lice had found a near heaven on Earth. The water being carried by the caravans was far too precious to use on showers or laundry, so instead the army relied on ice water generated by Elsa's magic. But the work was tedious and endless. There was no room for creativity there, only the generation of precisely sized ice blocks. If you washed, it was with cold water only, and only after your turn had come. What's worse, every day Elsa became more and more exhausted. The ice was not forming as easily here. Her powers were fading, almost as weak as they had been when she was a child. The supplementary ice water slowly dwindled to a trickle, then stopped. Lice, mice, and flies followed the army along, feeding on detritus, the dead, and the despondent. The army was rich in carrion.

The dry days were hardly any better. The endless rise and fall of boots on grass or road pounded the dirt hard, killed all the vegetation, and kicked up massive clouds of dust. With so many men, the dirt clouds were closer to storms, and they stung the eyes bitterly and burned the lungs. The fields they passed by were painted a dismal gray, and the troops hardly fared better. The supply trains, much slower, had trouble keeping up, and many days were at half rations or worse. Some men of weaker constitution would simply drop dead. According to the Coronan field manual, under ideal conditions, with no baggage, perfect columns, and clear roads, one could march for twenty some odd miles at a pace of three miles per hour. These conditions were hardly ideal. Columns ran into each other, orders were confused, and the sky itself seemed to weigh down on the army. On particularly muddled days, the men counted their blessings if they could manage eight miles. Every bit added to the army made the task of organization ever more complex. Horses had to be fed as well, and wagons, horses, and men all moved at different rates. Eight mile days were exceptional. Many days were closer to two or three.

The pace was not helping. The more the men marched, the more their footwear wore away. Boots wore apart and ground away. Strips were torn off uniforms and wrapped around feet to just to give a little bit of protection. Mud caked legs and hardened. Feet were cut up, bruised, and run raw. Napoleon would not slow the march. He had to cut the Russians off and win a decisive victory or be swallowed up. There was no forage here, only empty farmhouses and burnt out fields. There was no rest, only a grueling endless march.

They slogged forward. Morale had suffered. Zygmunt and others knew that the 25,000 rebels had been south Germans forced into service. But how much of a real difference was there between south German and north German? It was perhaps not the sanest line of reasoning. Eating boiled shoe leather will do that to your mind.

Packs hung heavily on shoulders. They were loaded with the necessities. Ammunition, a bit of water, something for sleep, powder, tools. This was no leisurely walk around the city.

The final day saw one of the great feats of speed in history. The entire army was pushed forward at a vigorous rate and covered the last 27 miles in a single day. It was all for naught.

Wind whistled through empty buildings and down lonely streets. Rags shambled about, held by invisible hands. Napoleon was dumbfounded. There was no Russian army, not even a delegation of Russian diplomats. The city had been completely abandoned. Not even a mouse stirred there, for they had all starved. It had taken 82 days and 400,000 lives to reach St. Petersburg. Napoleon had conquered a city of ghosts.


	32. Family Trip

The gray clouds and gray buildings and gray people and gray pollution stretched out into the gray horizon. Point is, it was gray. The gray streets were lined with gray rows of identical gray concrete apartments.

"Kids, welcome to Warsaw, Corona. This is the land of your ancestors," said the proud father.

"Hey dad? Our ancestral homeland is kind of a load of garbage," replied his son.

"It's sort of like hot gym socks and cat hair," said his daughter.

His son idly discarded a gum wrapper and the father ordnunged internally. His daughter pointed to a gleaming white tower breaking up the gray distance.

"What's that?"

"Oh. That's... that's... ummm... that's Stalin's dick."

"Stalin has a huge dick," said the boy.

"I want to touch Stalin's dick," said the girl.

"Irene Maria Aslaugssen, I forbid you to say that sentence or any variation on it ever again. But we can go see the building," said Riley in a stern voice.

The bus stop was crowded, mostly with disheveled blank-eyed office workers, with the occasional hobo sprinkled in. It smelled like dried piss, warm used tampons, and dead dreams. The bus pulled in, and Riley herded his children on board, paying the driver the appropriate amount of euros. It sputtered and fumed, then slowly chugged away from the curb. His children took the seats, while he held on to a pole.

After about five minutes, the bus stopped in front of Stalin's dick and the family got off. It was getting harder and harder to control his children, what with the teenage rebellion, but Riley managed. It was far, far better than giving them an absentee father.

The building was ringed by four statues. The bus had dropped them off in front of a twenty-foot tall statue of Kaiserin Rapunzel.

"Is that the Queen you wrote a book about?" asked Irene.

"Yes, that's Kaiserin Rapunzel, first Empress of the Coronan Federation."

"They put her in front of Stalin's dick? Hmmm. Suspiciously lewd," said his son Dave.

"I'm certain that wasn't the implication, and you are too."

"Yeah, yeah."

"She's very pretty, dad," said his daughter.

"Yes, she is. Far-sighted too. She and one of her advisers, Dr. Humboldt, were early proponents of electric telegraphy. Think of that next time you pull out that iPhone!"

"Is there anything more about her?" asked his daughter.

"Yes, plenty. There's even a legend that she will return on a beam of sunlight one day, when Corona is suffering from its direst need, and revive all of the worthy dead."

"Who's that over there?" asked his son.

It was a bronze statue of a man sitting in thought. His hand caressed his beard knowingly, and his eyes, pensive and calm, stared out into the distance. There was a half-finished wheel cradled in his lap, and in his other hand he held a spoke.

"Ah. That's the Wheelwright, legendary founder of the Piast dynasty."

"What did he do?"

"Well, he was a poor craftsman who still managed to feed two strangers turned away by the duke, and for his hospitality, his line would become kings of Poland. It teaches a lesson about always being kind and helping others."

"Aren't strangers dangerous?"

"Yes, sometimes, and you should be careful. But that doesn't mean you can't be kind too. Friends were strangers too once."

"Cool. What about those horse guys?"

"That's Jogaila and Vytautas, two great commanders and rulers. They fought together and drove back the Teutonic Knights."

"I see. Christianity ruining things onnnnceeee again."

"Not so fast. The Polish were Christian too, and they would eventually Christianize Lithuania. This statue is more of a symbol of friendship, and the kind of things that can be accomplished when you work together. The Teutonic Knights were carving out their own little kingdom, and fighting anyone that got in their way. Nobody believed in the ragtag coalition, but they won and changed the destiny of Eastern Europe."

Riley herded his children around the building to the last statue, a modest and simple block sitting on the southern side of Stalin's dick. On it were names, with one of them being scratched and partially graffitied.

"And this... this is the monument to Operation Valkyrie."

"Huh?"  
"During the Second World War, many of the officers and officials grew disgusted with the monstrosities of the Reich. They hatched a conspiracy to assassinate the Fuhrer, and succeeded, but it led to a civil war against a rival faction led by two propaganda ministers, Hitler and Goebbels. Eventually they won and restored the monarchy, but not all of them made it. Those names are written here."

"Why is one of the names so scratchy?"

"Oh... yes, I see. That would be... Hauptsturmfuhrer Anna Elizabeth Hohenzollern. I can understand why. She was an agent for the conspirators working in the Waffen SS, feeding back information. However, in order to keep her cover, she had to hide her true feelings and make sure things stayed efficient and non-suspicious. Many innocent people died because of her. She ran one of the camps."

"So is she a good guy or a bad guy?" asked Irene.

"Neither. Both. History doesn't always have good guys and bad guys. She... she did many horrible things. But she also helped save Corona from itself. The conspiracy would have certainly failed without her work. Hmmm... I want you to remember what I'm about to tell you. You're going to listen to me less and less in the coming years. You're going to hate the Man, and everything he stands for. But the Man doesn't hurt you because he likes to. He does things because they have to happen. The Man hates the unfairness of it too. In fact, there's no such thing as The Man, only a bunch of little men trying to get by with their lives. Normal people, just like us. When you get even older than that, you might hate yourself or hate the system. No matter what, though, I don't ever want you two to give up on your dreams. Dreams can come true. Just... just remember that, ok?"


	33. Four Hundred Miles

_"War is hell. Russian winter is worse." - Anonymous_

It was a placid mid-July day. Slightly over three months had passed since the campaign had begun.

"Happy 27th birthday. I got you something," said Anna.

It was a set of bowls and cups. It appeared as if gold leaf was laid over a black coating, but they were surprisingly light and airy. They were covered in a floral pattern.

"Found these in Veliky Novgorod. Kinda cool. How do they think they do that?" said Anna.

"They're wonderful, I really appreciate it."

"Also, we're back on full rations. The wagons have finally caught up and we've got less mouths to feed. It's not a real birthday dinner, but it's sort of special since we've been living on gruel so long."

"Oh... oh no. I forgot your birthday. What kind of a sister am I?"

"Don't sweat it. I went out with Kristoff and the marines, and they paid for all of my drinks. Did you know I was born on the same day they won their independence? Crazy stuff, cra-zee stuff. Almost like I was born to do this."

"I'll make it up to you next year, I promise."

"Don't sweat it. We've got a full day ahead of us, let's get moving."

The army had slowed to a normal pace. At that rate, it would be three and a half months more. Winter was coming.

Three hundred and fifty more miles to Moscow.

* * *

Four hundred more miles to Corona.

The Ottoman troops had been delayed a bit. The Serbian provinces had been in open revolt for the past few years, brazenly declaring their own independence. All but a few major garrisons had fallen to the rebels, and they had even established their own system of governance. Alas, it was not to be. 200,000 Ottoman soldiers, bolstered with 10,000 crack Austrian troops assaulted the defenses in Belgrade, and the rebels were publicly executed. 300 men found especially responsible had meat hooks driven through their abdomens. They were left to dangle above the Belgrade gates as they slowly died of exposure. Karadorde Petrovic, one of the leaders of the insurgency, fled into exile in Morocco. The Turkish army pillaged the city for a week then proceeded towards Vienna.

They had been there before, hundreds of years prior. The summer of 1529 had been very wet, and Suleiman the Magnificent's artillery had been caught in the mud. Without his cannon, Suleiman was unable to take the city, and so ended the great Ottoman conquests. Christendom had been saved. The situation was different now. The Turkish army had plenty of cannon now, but it wasn't needed. The gates of Vienna swung open, unbidden. The liberation of Germany had begun.

The Ottoman forces would not be divided. Instead, they would sweep over the German lands as one, an unstoppable force. If they were left to spread out, there was a very real risk of the remaining Coronan forces destroying them one by one. There were only 30,000 defending the region, but most of them were Kingdom Guards, an elite force of dragoons usually tasked with guarding the capital. The Kingdom Guards had been trained to ride vast distances, hold against overwhelming odds, and fire at a blisteringly quick rate of 6 shots per minute. There was a very real risk that the green recruits of the Ottoman army would break and run before the Kingdom Guards did. The main advantage of the Ottoman army was numbers, and it had to be preserved.


	34. Father

Father. It was a disgusting word. Even thinking it made his mouth feel slimy. He cleared his throat.

"Britons! Proud, brave Britons! Today, you bring proper English liberty to a debased people! For centuries, these islands have been in the thrall of decadent and corrupt nobles. Today, that ends! There is no darkness strong enough to withstand the coming of the light. There is no night that does not end with the dawn. The British army may be afraid, but you, you are brave. You are the righteous few who are willing to sally forth onto a continent despoiled. Today is the day that Napoleon's empire of evil falls!"

They cheered. Idiots, all of them. He had made that speech up on the spot. That was the real difference between nobility and the plebeians. You could give the common man anything and he would obey. Mindless drones and sheep. He knew better than them. It wasn't a judgment so much as it was a fact of life. He paused. It wasn't quite right to think of himself as a he anymore, was it? He was much better now. He was royal.

We know better. Truer than any of the garbage coming out of mouths these days.

The guns of the defenses weren't firing. It was odd. His men were streaming onto the beaches, but there wasn't a single enemy combatants to be found. It was a clearly a trap, but if it was for his army, it would be sprung by now. He was the obvious target.

Still, he couldn't very well stay back now. The men would think him a coward. It was a devious mind he was against. He stepped off the boat and onto the sand of the Southern Isles. Still nothing. Birds chirped carelessly in the distance.

Ahead of him was Christiansborg Palace, his childhood home. The two arms of the palace rested smugly on the earth, the great eye of the tower judging him as he neared. It didn't matter anymore, it would soon be its master.

The door swung open with the lightest of touches. There were no barricades. The lonely halls were completely devoid of people. Hans scowled. There would be ambushers here.

He took a step forward. No shots fired. He took another step. Nothing. He took up a brisk pace and began to walk towards the royal bedroom. The only sound was the mocking of his boots echoing back at him.

Door after door opened. Nothing. Finally, he came to the last corridor before his father. There were two chess tables set up there. One had a single king circled by twelve pawns. The other, two kings, white and black, and two knights, both white. Was there any point to such a ridiculous display? Hans spun around, scanned the perimeter, checked the ceiling. It could've been a distraction to allow an assassin to close in, but there was no one. A lesser man would have called this paranoia. We knew better.

He opened the final door. Inside was a middle-aged man and his father.

"So you must be the one prolonging my father's agony? I thank you for your devoted and ceaseless service to the crown. You are dismissed," said Hans, honey practically dripping from his tongue.

The man stared at him like a scared deer.

"Go on now. Help the people, pursue a private practice. I have to have a heart-to-heart discussion with my father. The door is right there, my good man."

The doctor nodded then ran out. Hans slammed the door behind him and barred him. He was alone with his father now. First him, then Arendelle, or Corona, or Sweden. It didn't really matter where, the world would be his.

His father looked at him through beady, sallow eyes. They were dark and set deeply in his rotten skull. His hair was thin, gray, and wiry. Blood and mucus speckled his beard, which draped across his torso like a burial shroud. His skin was stretched taut over his bones, almost translucently pale. The room smelled of decay. His hands were splayed out, nails long and splintered. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his gums blood red and receded.

"Daddy, I'm hooooome. Did you miss me? Of course you did. I'm the only one of your sons that was anything more than an abject failure. How does it feel? Wonderful? Grand? Splendid? All three, all three. It must be great having a son like me, hmm? Look at the others, idiots all. Especially your heir. How does it feel knowing that perfect, lovable Eric is a simpleton who married a mute he just met? It must be absolutely delightful. I'll help you drink in the joy."

His father only smiled at him. Hans narrowed his eyes and drew his cane.

"A good host... should always try to keep his guests entertained. Where are your stories, father? What about all those amusing anecdotes you used to share? I'll... encourage you to speak up. Shyness is a curse, I remember."

Hans gave his father a sharp smack in the face using his cane.

"Better? I'm sure it is. Now then, how do you feel? How do you feel that little Hans was the only one to understand the game of thrones? How do you feel knowing that everyone else was worthless, subhuman garbage? Well? Answer me."

His father looked him straight in the eye.

"Son... I win. Checkmate," said his father. Then the old man gave a hacking, wet laugh and closed his eyes.

"What? What on earth does that mean? Answer me!"

Hans began to beat the body, striking the face again and again. He threw himself at the man, driving his whole mass into every blow.

"Explain yourself! COME ON! ANSWER ME! For once in your miserable husk of an existence, ANSWER ME! YOU SON OF A BITCH! I AM YOUR KING NOW! FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, GIVE ME AN ANSWER!"

So began the reign of Hans I, King of the Southern Isles. The King is dead. Long live the King.


	35. Fusillier

It was another overcast day in a long series of overcast days. When had he last seen the sun? Mid-April? It seemed like an eternity ago.

The snows had already started, despite it only being late August. He didn't shiver, though. There wasn't a point to it. The boots went on ahead of him, the boots went on behind. Everywhere, a sea of boots going up and down again. The rhythm of the boots conducted him. It told him to march. He did.

His thoughts swam about in a messy stew. A series of starts and stops and starts again. A million lines that didn't quite connect. He tried to focus. It didn't work.

It was another overcast day in a long series of overcast days. When had he last seen the sun? He remembered the smell of sawdust and autumn leaves falling. That seemed about right.

He forced himself to wake up, only to find himself already awake. Good, the job was already done. Less work. He was already in the middle of a march, apparently. They had to be going somewhere important. That was good. Doing important things was good. He took a swig from his canteen, but it was completely dry. There was supposed to be water in there. How odd.

It was another overcast day in a long series of overcast days. When had he last seen the sun? Had he ever seen the sun?

His body was getting weaker and weaker and he didn't know why. There was really no reason for such a silly thing, but every week sapped away his strength. They had even gone back on full rations, but the problem didn't go away. Things were getting better though. He was very, very warm now. It was comfortable. It was even better than the sun.

It was another overcast day in a long series of overcast days. When had he last seen the sun? He remembered her face, so squishy and puffy and innocent. How she cried when he hid his face and giggled when he moved his head back. The way she was endlessly curious, how she tried to eat everything.

He stared out across the plains. His feet continued to plod up and down, independent of his will. It was a slog. His coat was so, so heavy. It was making it hard to march. He didn't need a coat anyways, it was warm enough. He took it enough and continued the march.

It was another overcast day in a long series of overcast days. When had he last seen the sun? It had been such a happy day, hadn't it? The sun addressed them all in her boundless graceful and kind voice. She was the mother of the nation, the great guardian of all the people. He had basked in her radiance. She was marching in the column too, he could see her.

He sped up, disobeying the orders of the drum and metronome. He had to see the sun again. He got a closer look. It was not the sun, just her family. Protect them always. He gathered all of his remaining rations into a pack, wrapped them up with his shirt. He ran over, shoved the package into the blonde's hands, saluted the redhead. She was reaching for a weapon. How strange.

"Will I ever see the sun again?"

The words had slipped from his mouth, but were they his? He didn't know. The redhead was putting the sword away again. Still strange. Had he fallen? So he had.

The feel of snow against his face was so nice. The whole world went white.

Zygmunt has died.

Would you like to write an epitaph? Y

What would you like on the tombstone? Praise the Sun!

Would you like to make any changes? N

All of the people in your party have died.

Press SPACE to continue.

You have failed to complete the Moscow Trail.

Press R to restart.


	36. Footsteps in the Sand

The sands were hot under his feet. The leather of his shoes might be melting. He wasn't quite sure. The rock he was hiding behind was burning up, but it was better than being shot at out in the open. A few shots whizzed above his head. Another slammed into the rock, chipping a few pieces away. He coughed. The bullets were kicking up the sand. The September sun blazed overhead.

It was supposed to have been easy. 10,000 Moroccan troops would cross the border and put down the disorganized Barbary states. With the Ottoman empire distracted, there would be no reinforcements. Resistance had been heavier than anticipated, and the Moroccan soldiers had been bogged down.

He reached for a cigar. A peculiar time to smoke, but a habit was a habit. Besides, if he was going to die, he might as well die happy. The aroma swelled up in his lungs, and carried him away. The sound of gunfire evened out into a relaxing lullaby. He smirked. They could say that he died with class on his tombstone.

He puffed a few smoke circles through his nose, then tossed the cigar butt aside. It was oddly peaceful. He considered springing the hundred yards to the sea. It might be nice to take a swim before he met his maker. He peeked over the rock. The enemy was still there, slowly advancing. Then he took a double take. Cresting over the dune was a strange flag. Then it hit him.

"Thalatta! Thalatta!"

"Hell in a handbasket boys, we've done it!"

It was the Stars and Stripes. The men crossed over the ridge and he took a closer look. A more ragtag band it would be hard to find. Some men were wearing German clothes, some Turkish. Some were wearing ragged US uniforms. He could see fezs and loose pants, Bedouin robes, even lederhosen. Aside from the Americans, there were Albanians, Bosniaks, Croats, Serbs, Greeks, Armenians, Egyptians, Italians, Austrians, Germans, and even a Chinaman. There were horsemen, and riflemen, and men with standard muskets.

A few of them assembled into a line on the ridge, and the rest charged, horses and men all. It was a chaotic thing, boisterous and loud. The pirates looked, then immediately broke and fled. The leader then ran over to his little rock.

The US officer stretched his hand out, and he shook it.

"Sergeant Oscar C. Rates, United States Marines, happy as a hatter to meet you! Never thought the goshdarned Tripoli shore could be so beautiful!"

He was a loss for words. He scrounged his brains to find the appropriate way to say it, keeping in mind the limitations of his own English.

"Where in hell did you come from?"

"It's a long story, and you wouldn't believe me if I told ya. I'd be pleased as peach to tell you, though, just as soon as we find a base around here."

He nodded. Allah was merciful indeed.


	37. Frozen Wastes

The enemy made contact about thirty miles from Moscow. The supply lines of the Grande Armee stretched out for miles, and were dangerously vulnerable at points. Fighting began on October 5th, 1808, the first official day of the siege of Moscow. Russian cossacks attempted to raid French supplies, and would have succeeded if not for the quick action of General de Caulaincourt. His Dragoons rode to the defense of the wagons, circling them and mounting a defense against the enemy cavalry. So began the phase of the battle known as the Seven Days' Skirmish. Skirmish lines were thrown out and cavalry formed a defensive screen as the army marched onto Moscow. About one thousand were killed or seriously wounded on both sides over the course of those seven days.

The Russian army had swollen in size. At Vilnius they had 200,000 regulars against the roughly 250,000 soldiers of Napoleon's center column. As the Russians had retreated, many of the the peasants, faced with starvation, asked to join. By the time Napoleon reached Moscow, these civilian militia forces had ballooned to more than 800,000 in number, as the people of Russia rallied to fight a great patriotic war against the invaders. Unfortunately, as the Russians knew, and as Napoleon had learned, there was no way to field so many men in one place at one time.

With the French army drawing ever closer to Moscow, Tsar Alexander issued his famous orders. Two Romes had fallen. Moscow was the third-and it must not fall. There would be no more giving of ground. The Russian soldiers, demoralized by having to burn their own homes and fields, rejoiced. There would be no more retreat and no surrender. This was ground to hold or die fighting for.

The first line of defense was near the village of Borodino. The Russian forces had built a series of earthworks between the Moskva and Kolocha rivers. 200,000 Russians, mostly militia, had been assembled to hold the line against the remaining 250,000 men of the French army. The Russian artillery had been deployed heavily to the right. This would prove to be a fatal mistake. The left position was by far the weakest, and Napoleon set out to destroy out. He committed one hundred cannon to bombard the left positions, then sent in a first, unsuccessful assault. When the first attack failed, Napoleon relocated another two hundred cannon to the left and continued bombardment. Time was of the essence, and another unsuccessful attack might bog down the entire assault. Thus, a full 50,000 men were brought to the left and sent forward in an overwhelming advance. With a literal wall of men falling upon them, the untrained militia broke and ran, abandoning the defenses. They would be cut down in the rout. Momentum behind them, they continued to press down the Russian line, bringing them to the Great Redoubt on the Russian right. However, the defenses there were nigh-impenetrable, and for three hours the forces clashed indecisively, with French forces streaming in to reinforce the attack. Many of his surviving officers would be shot dead in the assault.

Napoleon was wary to commit his Imperial Guard, the best and strongest of the Grande Armee, despite the imploring of all of his generals. However, two hours into the attack, one of Old Guard walked brazenly into the generals' meeting. The fighting had clearly stalemated, and the grizzled old grenadier was mad. One of the privileges of the Old Guard was the right to complain, and the man would give Napoleon one of the most severe tongue lashings he would ever receive. The men of the Old Guard were all experienced veterans, many of whom had served Napoleon for almost twenty years. But what use was that bravery if it was never used? What good was a soldier that did not fight? Were the men of the Old Guard selected to enter a retirement? Napoleon relented. Les Grognards were committed.

The presence of the Old Guard stirred the spirits of the men, and the ferocity of the aged troops was something to behold. They stormed the fortifications with no fear of death, and the rain of enemy gunfire all around was no deterrent. Not even literal fire could stop them, for they moved too fast for the heat to catch up. Battles were decided by bayonet as well as by bullet, and that day, the bayonet won. The Great Redoubt fell, and the first line of defense was gone. With it came the capture of 400 pieces of artillery, as most of it could not be retreated with the collapse of the defenses.

Kutuzov was shocked and appalled. He harbored a great love for his soldiers, and feared for their safety. The Tsar had tied his hands. If Kutuzov would not make the sacrifices needed to defend Moscow, someone else would-and Kutuzov would pay the price. Still, it was a deeply scarring thing.

50,000 Russians and 20,000 French had died or were wounded at the first redoubt, with the remainder of the Russians falling back to ridge laying behind the battle. However, the militia became confused when they saw the retreat of the first line, and this soon led to a great drop in morale. When the French came marching, the militia chose to abandon the ridge, and with it, their own safety. Without protection, they too would be run down. The second line had been manned by 50,000, and of those, 20,000 would become casualties of the battle that wasn't. Moscow was now within Napoleon's grasp.

200,000 Russians were guarding the city, along with the 180,000 that retreated from Borodino. For three days, Napoleon's men would sally into the city, and each day they would be pushed back by the sheer volume of men fielded. Fire, which had proven so crucial in previous battles, was failing here, as the Russians were unwilling to destroy their own capital. Moscow had to hold. It was the Third Rome, and there could be no more after. Over the course of those three days, another 45,000 French and 120,000 Russians would die. At the evening of the third day, Napoleon decided to halt the assaults, as he would soon have no army at all. It was decided to use the 1200 cannon to wear down the enemy's resolve. The supplies on hand would have to do. This would've been the end of the matter, if not for one thing.

On the dawn of the 29th day of battle, and the 21st of the siege proper, the plan was interrupted by some of the most devastating and unusual weather ever seen in a military campaign.


	38. Frozen Heart

Elsa was acutely aware that she was dreaming. It was an odd sensation, made odder by the fact that she seemed to have no control whatsoever over the dream. The void stretched out in inky blackness all around her. No amount of focus could summon anything from the emptiness. She sighed. It was still better than the nightmares, but she hadn't had those in more than a year. Then she heard a noise, and turned around. Behind her was some sort of viking warrior, and he was in mid-swi...

The world swam back into vision. Again, the void. She had pressed her luck too hard by presuming that it wasn't a nightmare. Elsa went on guard, scanning the horizon. She tried to move through the void, if that could be called movement, and she tried to do so unpredictably. It didn't work. Two figures appeared out of the corner of her eye, and again came the ax.

Well, at least she had a little more time to collect her thoug...

There were three that time. When she looked back again, there were now four. Thunk.

Five. Smack.

She immediately jumped away this time, and saw six men coming for her. Then she noticed something familiar about the sixth. That was one of the ancient Russian...

Tsars. And then there were seven. She broke into a full sprint. Maybe this would work.

It didn't. Eight.

Well, maybe her ice powers would...

Nine. Would be gone, like they had been for the last few months. She really couldn't catch a...

Broken head. Ten.

There was no escaping even. Eleven. When she. Twelve. Got. Thirteen. Back. Fourteen. Up. It. Fifteen. Was. Sixteen. Ridiculous. Seventeen. They multiplied, more and more of them, an unending flurry of blows.

Then, it stopped. One figure began to stride towards her from within the darkness. As it neared, Elsa made out his face. It was Alexander I. The Tsar brought his cloak around her, and she was again submerged in darkness.

When she emerged, there was only the first man again. He walked up and whispered in her ear.

"Rurik lives."

Then came a blow that stung her to her very bones. Her eyes shot open. She was still being hit, what was going on? A golf-ball sized hailstone beaned her between the eyes. She reached to the side and donned her helmet, then ran out of the tent. It was hailing everywhere.

"Storm the defenses men! We need to take shelter!"

Tents were being bashed to bits and wagons were being dented. Men were running forward as fast as they could, and the gates of Moscow were burning. Ladders were propped up against walls, barricades, and buildings, and men were scrabbling up as fast as they could. Maybe this would be a good experience. Did she really need ice powers to be a good soldier? After all, she was classically educated, physically fit, excellent at analysis, particularly mathematical analysis, and well-versed in the ancient histories of conquerors as august as Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great. It couldn't be that hard to.

She woke up again. Anna's smiling face was waiting for her.

"Hey Anna. I had the strangest dream last night. Did anything bad happen?"

"Nope, not at all! But don't look down."

Elsa looked down. Her hands were manacled.

"Does being a prisoner of war count as something bad?" asked Anna.

"Yeah. Yeah it does."

"Oh. Does a forty-eight hour hailstorm count as something bad?"

"I think that does too."

"Okay then. I just won't tell you about those two things. Everything is going great!"

After a bit of questioning, Elsa learned that the hailstorm had forced Napoleon's army to seek sturdier shelter, causing them to launch a direct attack on Moscow. For two days, the armies had clashed underneath the hail, but one crucial push by the Russians had caused the complete collapse of the right flank, and in the disarray, the army had gotten split apart. 15,000 had fallen, and a full 120,000 of the 170,000 men Napoleon had left were captured in the chaos. Napoleon was gone, sent fleeing back through Russia. God only knew how many of his men could survive the march back.


	39. Frozen Bank Account

The messenger came sprinting into the great hall, breath barely keeping up with his body.

"Your Highness, our army has been crushed at Moscow and has shattered."

The Queen instinctively reached backwards to grab the healing hair she no longer had.

"I... I... I see. Is that all?" asked Rapunzel.

"No. The Tsar has your cousins, your Highness. He is demanding a ransom of 650 million rubles."

"650 million? Silver or assignat?"

"Silver rubles. What's more, he wants you to send the highest ranking official you can."

"Oh no, oh no. This is bad. We don't have 650 million rubles. We're going to have to sell something... I know. Eugene, come with me. We're going to need to call a broker."

They passed through the labyrinthine halls of the palace, before finally coming to a massive steel door. Rapunzel set several combinations, then cranked a wheel. The door creaked open. The inside of the vault was lit by several gas lamps, which slowly flickered to life. The pair paused. The vault was completely sealed, and it would be good to cycle out some of the stale air. Then Rapunzel stepped inside, Eugene following close behind.

"Well... looks like somebody's beefed up the security here. No more heists for me," said the King.

Rapunzel ignored the comment, walking to the center of the room. The Polish crown jewels shimmered, lying in wait. The Crown of Boleslaw, which had been used as one of the crowns in her coronation. The Queen's Crown, which had been used during the ceremony for Eugene. He hadn't been happy about that. The Hungarian crown. The Homagial crown. The Funebralis crown. Szczerbiec, the Sword of Poland. Scepters, orbs, jewels. Her eyes were drawn to a familiar looking crown. It was so different from the Prussian crown she wore nowadays.

"Hey, I remember that thing. Shouldn't it be in a satchel?" said Eugene.

The Queen stroked the crown with her fingers, and a chill ran up her spine. Had it really only been nine years? Already it seemed like another world and another life. Her other hand moved to cup the squirming new life in her belly.

"Hey... Eugene? If the baby is a girl, can we name it Gothel?"

"After that witch? Blondie, something's up today. You feeling alright?"

"Well, she did raise me. I guess I still have more good memories than bad, even with what she did."

"Ahhhh, I understand. You've got some misplaced nostalgia. Alright, but if it's a boy, he's named Thunder McCoolguy."

"Thunder McCoolguy?"

"You know, from the Adventures of Flynn Rider."

"I've read the Adventures of Flynn Rider. I had it reprinted with you as the main character in that propaganda campaign. Who's Thunder McCoolguy?"

"I see someone hasn't read the revised and improved second edition."

Eugene sighed loudly.

"Oh Blondie, I'm hurt. Here I thought we were supposed to be soulmates."

"Ugh. I'm trying to be serious here. My cousins are being held prisoner."

Eugene gave her the smolder. She squinted. He smoldered harder. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. The smolder went to maximum power. She turned away. Eugene was giving the smolder all he had. She turned back, seized Eugene and threw herself into him, kissing with a throbbing, hungering passion.

"Mmmm, uhmmm, ohhhh... That never used to work before. No fair!"

"My powers will only get stronger with age, Blondie."

"Oh yeah? How about sixty or seventy, smart guy?"

"I'll be the sexiest grandpa alive. Families will line up for miles to see me in underwear. We'll retool the entire economy around Sexy Grandpa Tourism."

"Oh god."

"I'm going to enjoy having a son called Thunder McCoolguy."


	40. Frost in Moscow

**Author Notes: **The silver ruble was roughly equivalent to a dollar in value. In modern money, the demanded ransom is about 9.1 billion dollars. Merry Christmas.

* * *

"Borscht? Ukha? Pirozhki? Shchi? My chefs are very talented. Whatever you desire, they can make it for you. If you would like, I can recommend some dishes. I understand that you haven't eaten well in quite a while."

The room was ornately decorated. It was lined with art, art from all sorts of ages, from the modern stretching back to the medieval. There were battle scenes, portraits of long dead Tsars, even paintings of peasants. The wood, richly lacquered, sparkled in the glow of the fireplace. Alexander stood beside it, basking in the warmth. The energy was practically surging into him. He turned, appraised the sisters with his hard, reptilian eyes. He nodded, and beckoned them to two seats at the far end of the dining table, then sat at the other end.

"Please, take a seat. If they are uncomfortable, inform me. I have others available. Make yourself at home," said the Tsar.

"Your Imperial Majest..." said Elsa.

"No need for such formalities. You may call me Alexander."

"Why did you summon us here?"

"Ah. You think it's odd for us to be dining like this. There has to be some sort of business here, something behind it. It's weird, isn't it?"

"Yeah, a little bit," said Anna.

The Tsar took a sip of wine. He swished it about his mouth, sampling every aspect of the flavor. His tongue smelled the fragrances, sniffed out the floral and fruit highlights. His eyes flickered with a brilliant spark, dashing to and fro as the data aggregated. As he spoke, the light danced.

"Of course it is. We aren't dealing with friends or family here. This is the game of politics. Ice is beautiful, isn't it, Queen Elsa?"

"What are you getting at?"

"The spiraling snowflakes in their dancing, the way the patterns form and emerge. You rule a winter-bound land. So do I."

"And...?"

"I want to bring winter to Europe. I'm certain that you hate this war as much as I do. You've figured it out by now, I'm sure. An army cannot exist without food, cannot fight without permissive weather. Winter destroys all of this. When the ice comes, there will be peace. Queen Elsa, we should be on the same side."

"Millions would starve."

"And millions will die as this war drags on. Do you think Napoleon would content himself with Europe alone?"

"Perhaps I do."

"I thought the same... once. He is a seductive man. Brilliant, charming, deadly. He told me of how he intended to make Paris the greatest city in the world, of the new Europe he could forge. He told me how Russia, Third Rome, could live with the New Rome. He painted a picture of the world being remade in a more perfect image. He is an excellent liar."

"Or maybe he's never had the chance. He's been locked in war for years upon years. Britain refuses to sue for peace."

"Perhaps. I tried to mediate between the powers. At first I thought it was their stubbornness, but if the whole world stands against one man, who is more likely to be wrong? I looked further, and concluded that Napoleon was a tyrant. A man like him can never sate his ambition."

"But maybe you're wrong. Maybe he would make peace and make the Paris of his dreams."

"Maybe. Maybe he would continue his conquests and burn the whole world."

"So it seems that the central issue..."

"Is whether or not Napoleon is essentially good. A classic. Shall I begin, or will you take the first offensive?"

"I can open. Did Socrates not propose five natures from best to worst?"

"He did."

"Are you not of the philosophical and best disposition?"

"You flatter me, Queen Elsa."

"I propose that Napoleon, as a man of war, is the timocrat. As he is of the second best nature, he is a good man."

"Ah, but the second best nature does not compare to the best. All the other natures pale compared to the one with knowledge, as the others simply happen into truth. Napoleon may choose justly much of the time, but now I disagree with him, and as you yourself have awarded me a philosophic disposition, my opinion is more likely to be the correct one. As such, though he may be good in most circumstances if he is a timocrat, in this one, he errs. Furthermore, he may be of a sort like Meno, and thus be not very good at all. Can we say that Napoleon is not a blustering bully, using force to get his way? We can suppose that he isn't, but then we assume the conclusion to prove the conclusion. Now, my turn. Consider Kant, and consider war. War is a game of deception and lies. War is killing. War requires foraging-a polite term for stealing. So the character of war is essentially that of murder, lies, and theft. As Napoleon is a warlike man, he is necessarily not a good one."

"And if I disagree with Kant? What if I say that good is giving well-being to the greatest number in the greatest quantities?"

"I see that you keep up with academia."

"In warfare, lying and deception allows for the winning of more complete victories, and without forage, all of the soldiers would starve. Peasants often have potatoes and other sundries stored away for such times. Thus, Napoleon is only doing right by his men."

"But that assumes that the war occurs in the first place. Napoleon may do right by his men, but does he do right by the world? If there was no war, everyone would be even better off."

"But you assume that Napoleon caused the war. If it's a war forced upon him by the other powers, then he has no choice."

"So we arrive back at our original question. Is Napoleon the one at fault? Is he a good man?"

Elsa looked into the Tsar's eyes, the cold, dead stare of winter against the unblinking gaze of the serpent. Anna munched away at some buns.

"I have a counterpoint," said Elsa.

"Go ahead."

"All the men would die for Napoleon, and many of them did. Does that sound like a tyrant to you?"

"A good tyrant manipulates the people to see him as a saint. I should know."

"Then what about my sister? How about my cousin, Rapunzel? They trust him. If there's anything I've learned, it's that family will always be there for you."

"Your sister seems prone to blind loyalty and reckless foolishness."

"Hey, that's not... oooooh... chocolate!" interrupted Anna.

"As for your cousin? You can't trust family, especially not with such a tenuous connection. My own father and grandmother used me as a pawn in their game. I was to be the worthy heir my father wasn't. I was a tool to use against my grandmother. The history of Russia is rife with brothers scheming against brothers. Wouldn't you say that's a closer relationship than cousins? You want to know something interesting? Just about every war can be described a cousin's war. How is that for keeping it in the family? Family may matter for the common folk, but in the game of thrones, they're only another player. We have no friends or enemies... only interests."

"You're wrong."

"Am I? Let's make a wager."

The frozen grasp of winter met the calculating, mechanical cunning of the snake. Their eyes locked. How well did Elsa know her cousin? It wasn't like Anna. After all these years, Anna was still the only person she could wholeheartedly trust. Elsa nodded.

"Good. I thought you would agree, because the wager is already made. 650 million rubles for the ransom of you two."

"What?"

"Yes, 650 million rubles. It would be foolish to pay such a vast sum for two people. I'm interested to see what kind of rejection your cousin gives. She, like all of us, also plays the Great Game."

Elsa couldn't say anything to that. She could only hope that she was right.


	41. Fortunes of Men

The Louvre was a beautiful building. Mrs. Aslaugssen walked lightly. It felt as if the sanctity of those hallowed halls could be broken by the slightest indiscretion.

The tour guide continued her speech.

"Here we have Jacques-Louis David's _Donation of the Guilders_. They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but this one is worth quite a bit more, I think. This picture is particularly interesting, because it was commissioned in 1816, during a time when David was transitioning back into his normal classical material after a long period of propaganda material. It's essentially a reprise of the Tennis Court Oath painting that never was, an attempt to paint in history in something close to real time. You see, David was actually rather involved in politics. He was a Jacobin and part of the Committee of General Security, and as such, helped orchestrate the Reign of Terror. Only a stomach bug saved him from being guillotined along with Robespierre. Napoleon took a liking to him, and he survived the wars as a propaganda painting. After the war, he went onto a list of enemies of France, and fled to the court of Corona. The king offered to pardon him and give him a position as a court painter, but David had come to enjoy his exile. Donation of the Guilders is one of the last paintings he ever created, along with _Mars Being Disarmed by Venus and the Three Graces_, having been completed in 1823. You can clearly see the mixture of classical elements into the paintings. Many a young history student has been tripped up by it, but contrary to what they might say, Kaiserin Rapunzel did not ever dress in such a manner. The outfit is a reference to _The Coronation of Napoleon_, which is itself a reference to ancient Roman imperial garb. Some of the other classical elements are more subtle. In those overflowing chests of gold and silver, many of the coins are of Roman design, not the rubles they actually were. If you look closely at the Guilders themselves, three of them have the faces of Bailly, Robespierre, and Marat. Of course, that's all background. The story of the painting itself is also a harrowing tale. Almost immediately after its completion, it became a symbol for German nationalism. It was kept in the Coronan royal palace until 1935, during the unification of Corona and Germany into the Third Reich. From 1935 until the collapse of the Reich in 1946 it was hung in the Reichstag. Soviet soldiers stormed the building, but the painting was already gone. It, and other Nazi treasures, had been spirited away by a Mr. Holtzmann, a minor official in Hitler's faction, who fled to Argentina. When the Mossad tracked him down in 1974 and gave him a long overdue punishment for treason, the painting was recovered and donated to the Louvre."

Mrs. Aslaugssen took a long look into the painting. What secrets did it hide?

* * *

Mr. Kalischer took a sip of his Haitian coffee. It was rarer now, what with the revolution nonsense. It only made the taste all the better. He idly flipped through his newspaper. He didn't read any of the headlines or articles, it just gave his hands something to do while he savored the coffee. It tasted like wealth.

His man walked in. Mr. Kalischer raised head to turn and look.

"Mr. Kalischer? The Palace has a request for you," said the messenger.

"Go on then. Time is money."

"They're looking for a buyer for the Polish crown jewels."

"I see. Well, there's the art market, other royals, we can set up meetings with the independe..."

Mr. Kalischer took another swig of coffee then spit it all out.

"What in the blazes? What do you mean they're selling the Polish crown jewels?"

"They're selling the Polish crown jewels, sir."

"Summon the Guilders. We have an executive decision to make."

Rapunzel was stir crazy, stuck in endless pacing. Would they have time to sell the jewels? Would they even be valuable enough? Her thoughts went again to her cousins. Were they suffering in prison? She remembered the time Gothel had chained her. What were they going to do?

"Your Majesty? Mr. Kalischer is here," said the messenger.

"Mr. Kalischer. Have you found a buyer yet?"

"That will no longer be necessary, your Majesty," said Mr. Kalischer.

"What?"

"The Guilders are paying the 650 million rubles in full. Think of it as a service to the country."

"That's far too kind of you, I can't possibly accept."

"Nonsense. Do you realize how much money passes through the Coronan economy each year? It's a pittance, really."

That was a lie, or at least, not a full truth. Though many of the Guilders made a great deal of money, they also had considerable operating expenses. Furthermore, the actual Guilders organization was more like a Chamber of Commerce, collecting a small percentage of profits in exchange for representation and connections. The sum had drained the entire treasury, and quite a few properties had to be mortgaged. Furthermore, at any time, there was only a finite amount of each currency held in reserve. To pay the sum, they had to exhaust completely their reserve of rubles, and then dip deeply into their held precious metals. Normally, such a currency change would have a fee, but they were doing it for themselves this time, so they did not even glean that small return.

"I really don't know what to say. Thank you."

"No, thank you. I'm a simple man, your Majesty. I like my latkes fresh, my coffee Haitian, and my queens... to have all the nobility their station rightfully deserves. My family came here three hundred years ago with nothing, and now look at us. This land has been good to us. How many men have died for this great land recently? Compared to that, this is nothing."

"I can't thank you enough."

"Rule well, my Queen. That's thanks enough for me. If it makes you feel better, your other seven Hanukkah presents are all socks."


	42. Family Trip (Reprise)

The chill wind bit hard into Rapunzel's bones, and not even her thick winter coat could keep its wrath completely away. Alexander had demanded the highest official she could send, and what higher official was there than the Queen herself? Eugene put his hand on her shoulder.

"It really hurts seeing the love of my life like this," said the escape artist formerly known as Flynn Rider.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. I've been through worse," replied the Queen.

"I was talking about the money. Look at that big stack of gold that I'll never see again. You know half the coins have my face on them?"

"Do I need to get the frying pan out?"

"You know you can't resist the smolder anymore. I've become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

Rapunzel gave Eugene a quick peck on the cheek, and Eugene draped his coat over his wife. In the distance, vague forms began to take shape. Carriages rolled in, guarded by men tall and strong. Out stepped a man, face hardened and careworn, eyes fixed with a impassive gaze. It was the Tsar.

"The Tsar of the Russian Empire greets the Empress of the Germans," said Alexander.

"I am no Empress yet," replied Rapunzel.

"You are in all but name. Do you have my payment?" asked the Tsar.

"Yes I do. 650 million rubles, 310 million in coins, 150 million in gold bullion equivalent, and 190 million in silver equivalent."

The Tsar blinked, then stood still in the snow, visibly shaken. Anna and Elsa stepped out of the carriage, and Elsa approached the Tsar.

"You have an extraordinary family, Queen Elsa."

"Yeah. I really do, don't I?" replied the Queen.

Rapunzel beamed back. Eugene puffed out his chest.

"I wish... Are you aware that I had two daughters? Had. They died. I would have fixed the mistakes of my father. I would have raised them right. Why would God take them from me, I wondered. His response was very clear. War is a terrible thing. It has destroyed so many families, why should mine be spared?"

"I know what it's like to feel alone. You don't have to suffer through that."

"Metternich called me a fool. I tried to mediate a peace, but their stubborn pigheadedness destroyed it! Didn't they see that a man like Napoleon wouldn't stop fighting until he died? That he would drown Europe in blood before he allowed his ambitions to die? I wanted to tear his damnable throat out on the spot."

"But you couldn't, could you? It's not right for the ruler of a Great Power to lose control of himself."

"Perhaps Paris will be the city of lights and jewels he promised it could be."

The Tsar turned back to look at Rapunzel.

"We have made an honest war. Let us now make an honest peace. 650 million rubles is a ridiculous sum for a ransom. For the rebuilding of Vilnius, and the repayment of grieving widows and mothers, however, it is fair. You cannot put a value on a life, but this will ease their suffering. Vilnius will rise again, stronger than it was before. With the remainder, I will build new universities across Russia. God willing, the light of education will destroy the shadows of war once and for all. The men, wagons, and artillery I have captured will be returned. I asked you for the highest emissary possible, and you came personally. As such, I believe you are currently qualified to accept these peace terms," said the Tsar.

"I accept," said Rapunzel.

"Good. I look forward to the day we can beat our swords into plowshares and reforge them no more."

On that day, one of the greatest diplomatic revolutions of the 19th century took place. The Russian-Coronan alliance would stand firm until the Tsarist government was toppled by revolution. But that was not all.

* * *

"Heeeeey Elsa? I think you made a friend," said Anna.

They walked down the graveled path, pebbles and twigs crunching beneath their feet.

"Yeah, I guess I did," replied her sister.

"That's great! I'm so proud of you right now. Oooooh! Maybe if you make like... another hundred, we could throw one of those cool masquerade balls!"

"Let's not push it."

Both of them stopped. Their path had led them to a small village. Napoleon was standing there, in front of one of the buildings. The pair approached cautiously. Napoleon was no longer the classically beautiful man of his youth. He was balding now, and a paunch had formed. His eyes no longer glowed with the fire of ambitious brilliance, the light having been replaced with a cynical genius. He had grown old.

"Marshal Hohenzollern?" asked Napoleon.

"Yes Commander?" replied Anna.

"The 2nd Cavalry Corps has been reconstituted and is awaiting your command."

"I see. Where are they?"

"They lie in the next valley over."

"Understood. Send a messenger to Caulaincourt so he can ready his dragoons."

"Caulaincourt is dead."

"What?"

"Caulaincourt is dead. Fabrefond is dead. The officer corps has been decimated. I have promoted two promising new officers, Strolz and Exelmans. Chastel lives, but he is not the man he used to be. Watier has been transferred to your command."

"What else should I know?"

"The Corps is understrength. It only has 8,500 men in its five divisions. These envelopes contain my orders. Follow the instructions clearly, and only open the envelopes you are instructed to. Corona is under siege by 210,000 Turks. It must be relieved or else our cause is doomed. You must relieve the siege. Ride west as hard as you can."

"Your orders are clear, my Emperor."

"Wait! I was going to celebrate your birthday with you! It was going to be special, I promised!" shouted Elsa.

"Elsa, I told you not to worry about that. Look, I spent nearly a decade wishing I could see you. Now you're out here, with me. Every day I spend with you is special, you don't need to pick one out like that. Duty calls, sis. Take care of yourself, ok?" replied the Marshal.

"Godspeed, Marshal Hohenzollern," said Napoleon.

The sound of hoof-beats faded into silence.

"Do you really think she can defeat that many troops?" asked Elsa.

"No. I think she can annihilate them."

Many had made the mistake of underestimating Napoleon. The Ottomans were not the first, nor would they be the last. Napoleon had erred in Russia, but he was still one of the most formidable generals the world had ever seen, and his Empire was not doomed yet.

800,000 men had marched into Russia, and only 130,000 had returned. But those 130,000 had been through hell and back, and now nothing short of hell could stop them. Before, he had fresh men and Old Guards. Now his men were veterans all. Napoleon had not yet even begun to fight. Woe to those who believed that his Empire could crumble so easily.


	43. Going Crazy: Intermission

The best thing was that it was over quickly. The proposal was simple enough. Napoleon loved his wife, but needed an heir desperately. Elsa was growing older, and marrying someone of the appropriate rank would open up political dangers. If her husband decided it was time to try to rule jure uxoris, that was a whole can of worms. Her battlefield utility was decreasing now that everyone and their mother had a supply of Greek fire, and the dampening of her powers inside Russia had disturbing implications. The arrangement was made. All daughters and sons past the third would be of House Hohenzollern, and the first three sons would be of House Bonaparte. Easy enough, and probably not legal, but Napoleon was the Emperor of Europe. She laid back and thought of Arendelle, while his flabby mass rammed in repeatedly, his remaining hair flopping rhythmically to the speed of the thrusting. Once his business was complete, he wordlessly redressed and left.

Now she was back in Arendelle, eating pickles and chocolate ice cream at 3 in the morning.

"Look at me. I've lost control of my life," said Elsa.

"Yes, you have," replied Sven.

"Hey Kristoff, how's it going?"

Kristoff was sitting atop the reindeer, eyes closed, drool dribbling from his mouth, a faint odor cloud forming around his armpits.

"Kristoff is asleep. You should say hi to me," said Sven.

"Reindeer don't talk."

"I'm talking."

"Kristoff's saying your words for you."

"He's quite soundly asleep. You know he's not talented enough for that."

"Great. So I'm crazy and hallucinating this."

"Quite possible."

"So... Sven. How's baby Olaf doing?"

"His parents are an antisocial ice harvester and an incredibly violent thrill-seeker. She doesn't play peek-a-boo with him. She plays 'Hey a flanking maneuver, I'm gone! BOO! I killed that guy! Look, these are the faces they make! Argh! Hurk! Oof! Oh please, don't kill me!'. Kristoff is naturally socially inept, being raised by rock creatures."

"You're a cynical one. Anna loves children, I'm sure he'll turn out fine."

"Depends on one's definition of fine. Statistically, one of them will die when he's a child causing him to become some sort of masked vigilante using the skills his mother taught him. Of course, you know as well as I do that crime can't be solved so easily. He'll mostly cause property damage while the root problems continue to fester."

"Or you're wrong because you're just a figment of my imagination."

"There are two possibilities here. Either I'm a hyper-intelligent and wise reindeer, in which case my opinion is accurate, or I'm a figment of your imagination, in which case I have access to all of the knowledge about ruling you do, and this represents your own, well-informed opinion."

"Jeez. Since when was I such a heartless bitch?"

"Well, you are a Queen. The game of geopolitics is a dirty one, and you have to consider aggregates and treat people as numbers and causes, not people. It's almost textbook psychopath, really."

"So I'm a psychopath too."

"Your parents were afraid of you for a reason. I mean, think about how you've dealt with things. Two men appeared, both threats. You attempted to terminate them, and almost did. Your own sister shows up, and your subconscious manifests as a snow monster that nearly kills her. You're a mean person."

Elsa's spoon full of ice cream stopped short of her mouth. She set it back down in the bowl, and put the bowl on the counter.

"That was a low blow," said Queen Elsa.

"But I'm just a figment of your imagination, remember? This is just part of the bundle of unresolved issues you have because your parents died."

"So I'm a lunatic that talks to animals. Good."

"Do you really think you're alone?"

"Usually am. One of the perks of being a freaky ice witch."

"Other rulers face the same problems that you do. They, too, send thousands to their deaths and cause great amounts of suffering in exchange for nebulous promises of a better future that don't always pan out. Do you think that doesn't affect them? Behind every king is still a man."

"Are you seriously suggesting that other kings do this? I mean, Rapunzel is perfectly well-adjusted and kind and oh god she has that chameleon, doesn't she?"

"And the English have their own special dog kennel. The chains of commanding weigh heavily."

"Oh god."

"Yup. Why do you think so many kings have gone crazy?"

Elsa reached the end of the hallway. With a flick of her wrist, the roof evaporated, and a new tower sprouted up. A stairway condensed out of thin air, and she walked up it to a brand new room, clean and clear.

"What are you planning now, Queen Elsa?" asked the reindeer.

"If you're so smart, you should be able to tell me. I'm going to paint," replied the Queen.

"Are you any good at painting?"

"Nope. Do I really have to be good at everything?"

"Of course you do, the world is always watching. Be the good girl you always have to be."

"Not now. Right now I can eat chocolate ice and pickles and make a shitty drawing."

"Look at how far the quality of your cathartic releases has fallen. From beautiful ice castles to shitty drawings of countries."

"Well, now ice is part of the job. It's a lot less fun when you realize that ice also kills people."

"Your sister doesn't seem to have a problem with it."

"Well..."

"Well, it's because she's also a crazy person. That sort of happens when your parents and sister ignore you and you have no other human contact for years."

"Make me feel worse, why don't you? Anyways, I have other friends. What about Alexander?"

"He's basically a gender-flipped you. The fact that you would be willing to have sex with him is indicative of your own narcissism."

"I wouldn't..."

"Yeah, you would. You're desperate for love but don't understand it yourself, and years of isolation have destroyed your own social skills in any situation that doesn't involve affairs of state. The fact that he's nearly the same age as you is just a plus. He's also a madman."

"I correspond with a number of professors across Europe."

"You mean you get along with other shut-ins who only deal in theory and academia rather than the dirty practicalities of real life?"

"The peasants like me."

"The peasants that have no ability to consider the big picture since they work all day? The peasants that have never really known you and never will? They're in love with the idea of you, not you. And really, who wouldn't be? The scholar queen who's reforming the country but can still fight, blessed with beauty, intelligence, and charm, able to resist foreign influences while learning their ways, who works tirelessly to protect and better the nation? Who's appropriately aloof but still relatable because of all she's been through. Conceptually, you're **perfect**. Also, the ability to love an ideal person but not people themselves is also crazy."

"So is anyone sane?"

"Kristoff. Just Kristoff."

"Why does everything you say hurt so much?"

"Truth hurts."

"Can you just lie to me instead?"

"I could, but you don't really want that. You've never been to trade knowledge for bliss. That's why you read so much."

"I'm such a lovely person."

"You say that sarcastically, but you are. Your self-loathing is a product of years spent fearing your own power, which hasn't been improved by the killing spree you've made across Europe. By the way, those paintings are awful. Why did you give the countries eyes?"

"It adds character, doesn't it?"

"Don't quit your day job."

"So what happens if you aren't a spawn of my pregnancy-addled mind? Why would you even hang around?"

"If there is intrinsic meaning and good exists, then I am here because I must do good. If it does not, then meaning is mine to dictate and this is what I chose as a purpose. I have seen the cycle of eternal recurrence and willed myself to continue it. I am the Overman. I am destiny's lover and the weaver of fates."

"You're a reindeer."

"Yes."

Elsa surveyed her creation. It was crude, poorly drawn, and massive.

"So, what do you think?"

"It's so simple that a five-year old could draw it, and the only real value comes from what I will dubiously call humor. The jokes don't even make sense half the time because your English is terrible and most of the sentences are a garbled mess. At the same time, it's just deep enough to make you feel smug for understanding it. It's trash that's only slightly better than lowest-common-denominator schlock. So what I'm saying is that it's the only cultural achievement anyone will remember Norway for. Ironic, since it's not even named after Norway. The titular country isn't even drawn right-side up."

"Pretty good?"

"My dear, Polandball is perfection."

Elsa took a seat on the frozen floor. She looked deeply into the reindeer's eyes, her own cold eyes icy and sombre.

"So I'm psychotic, neurotic, asocial, narcissistic, needy, and it's possible that I've completely lost my grip on reality. What would my parents say? What will the future say?"

"They'll call you the Great, or perhaps the Magnificent, or the Splendid. Your parents would be proud."

"Reindeer, you are my greatest ally."


	44. Gate

Maximus was a good horse, and that was legacy enough for him. Horatius was the third son of a Junker family, and he knew well that his end had come. The city of Corona was surrounded on all sides. It was time for a last speech, then they would man the walls and die like men.

"Friends, brothers, comrades. We stand here, outnumbered seven to one by a craven foe. He doubts the valor of Coronan men. He doubts the fervor of our devotion. He doubts the elan of our corps. Let us show him the error of his ways. If he wishes to cross the bridge, let him repave it with Turkish bones. If he wishes to cross the sea, let him make rafts of bloated corpses. If he wishes to cross the walls, let him build a siege ramp of the dead. Guards, the streets of Corona will run inches deep with blood before we bend knee to another."

The sun rose. So it began. Sol Invictus.

Then out spake brave Horatius  
the Captain of the Gate  
"To every man upon this earth  
Death cometh soon or late.  
And how can man die better  
Than facing fearful odds,  
For the ashes of his fathers,  
And the temples of his gods,

And the Kingdom Guards did rally  
and man the battered walls  
And though the Turks did sally  
Cannons bursting with deathly pall  
The gates held them, tens and twenty  
Corona would not fall

So the numbers dwindled  
Brave men dying on the wall  
And shouted brave Horatius  
Corona must not fall  
Who will join me in the fighting  
Their forces we must stall  
We shall try them tens and twenty  
We shall defy the hand of fate  
Come now, sons and fathers  
Let us die here on the gate

Then out spake brave Hilda  
who ran a market stall  
She had danced with fair Rapunzel  
And now heard the clarion call  
The gates were being battered  
She would hurry to the wall  
For how could she die better  
Than facing fearful odds  
For the ashes of her fathers  
And the temples of her gods

So the numbers dwindled  
Brave men dying on the wall  
And shouted brave Horatius  
Corona must not fall  
Who will join me in the fighting  
Their forces we must stall  
We shall try them tens and twenty  
We shall defy the hand of fate  
Come now, sons and fathers  
Let us die here on the gate

Then out spake brave Bronomir  
Who cleaned the towers tall  
He had loved the balloons alighting  
And now heard the clarion call  
The bridge was thick with fighting  
He would hurry to the wall  
For how could he die better  
Than facing fearful odds  
For the ashes of his fathers  
And the temples of his gods

So the numbers dwindled  
Brave men dying on the wall  
And shouted brave Horatius  
Corona must not fall  
Who will join me in the fighting  
Their forces we must stall  
We shall try them tens and twenty  
We shall defy the hand of fate  
Come now, sons and fathers  
Let us die here on the gate

And now the noon sun burning  
Set fire to their hearts  
For the tide was not yet turning  
But their Queen's love would now start  
And with that distant yearning  
For homeland and for kin  
Their foe men were now learning  
True power grows within

So the numbers dwindled  
Brave men dying on the wall  
And shouted brave Horatius  
Corona must not fall  
Who will join me in the fighting  
Their forces we must stall  
We shall try them tens and twenty  
We shall defy the hand of fate  
Come now, sons and fathers  
Let us die here on the gate

Then out spake brave Lord Bergmann  
Who checked proposals royal  
He had served with words and papers only  
And now heard the clarion call  
The garrison was now lonely  
He would hurry to the wall  
For how could he die better  
Than facing fearful odds  
For the ashes of his fathers  
And the temples of his gods

So the numbers dwindled  
Brave men dying on the wall  
And shouted brave Horatius  
Corona must not fall  
Who will join me in the fighting  
Their forces we must stall  
We shall try them tens and twenty  
We shall defy the hand of fate  
Come now, sons and fathers  
Let us die here on the gate

Then out spake brave young Gawel  
Who was but a child, bold and small  
He had played games without ending  
And now heard the clarion call  
A new wave they were then sending  
He would hurry to the wall  
For how could he die better  
Than facing fearful odds  
For the ashes of his fathers  
And the temples of his gods

So the numbers dwindled  
The day passing into night  
And though the Coronans sallied  
And though they'd bravely fight  
The city was still falling  
The foe would seize and kill the light  
Their forces were too many  
It was sure the cause was lost  
But then he saw a figure  
Riding through the frost  
A brave and mighty horseman  
A dragoon to fight the shameful loss

And through the distant hillocks  
and o'er the envious ridge  
Were heard a thousand flintlocks  
The fusiliers had crossed the bridge  
For the pincer was now striking  
Frenchmen poured in from every side  
Napoleon had a new Cannae  
To those who mocked his pride

So their numbers bolstered  
Horatius held strong and brave  
Corona stood unconquered  
It had the victory it did crave  
And so they came and conquered  
And fought off fearful odds  
For the homeland of their fathers  
For the the temples of their gods


	45. Go to the City

The French army marched south. Napoleon had pulled away the 30,000 guarding the Channel and the 40,000 stationed in Italy to relieve the Siege of Corona, and together with the 130,000 men from the Russian campaign, there was still enough to put together an army. You don't win a war by dying for your country, but nor do you win it simply by making your foe die for their country. In order to win, it is necessary to destroy their spirit and break the character of the nation. Invasions of Russia, Vietnam, and Afghanistan bathed the countries in blood, but no matter how many died more would replace them. The strength of Rome was not necessarily its tactics, but its ability to replace its losses and never surrender. The people must be convinced that the cause is unworthy, must be made to feel suffering, must be made guilty. Although armies can be destroyed, they can be replaced at, even if the cost is steep, if the spirit of the people lives on. The people must be whipped into a killing frenzy. The enemy must be made less than human, or else it will feel like murder. If wars were simply a matter of men, then they could all be fought into wars of annihilation. At what point does such a thing stop being war and start being genocide? 1%? 5%? 10%? 20%? 25%?

When the will of people wavers, war becomes impossible. Either the leaders are pressured into surrender, or they try stubbornly to fight on, and the dissenters handicap the effort, causing the enemy to strike and make sausage of their meat and bread of their bones.

So really, what choice was there? The kings had to make monsters of their people, or else they would not fight. The kingdom would be broken, the men enslaved or killed, and the women stolen away. Their land would fade into oblivion. The people must be sacrificed for the good of the people. Die fighting, or die on your knees, it was death either way. So on it went. Disappear the dissenters. Gas the protesters. Ride down the rebels. It was for the greater good.

* * *

Constantinople would not hold. The defenses were strong, but wills were weak. If the Turks were willing to fight to the death, Napoleon would need ten times the men to take the city. Mahmud knew this was not the case. He had purged too many foes too quickly, and now the people feared he was a tyrant. He was, but that was besides the point. His tyranny was necessary. A kind king wouldn't be able to push through the reforms the state so desperately needed, and the empire would stay a backwater until it eventually fell apart. Still, he had misstepped. All those reactionaries had their own friends and families, and those friends and family members had their own friends and families. As long as he had Austrians backing him, this could be contained. With the loss of his army, though, his monopoly on force could now be challenged by any sufficiently bold rebels. Populists, nationalists, and liberals would all work together to throw out his "tyrannical foreign puppet" regime.

Their success would be their undoing. They were all natural enemies, and soon enough they would be at each others' throats. Someone would try to fill the power vacuum, and then civil war would follow. Chaos and anarchy would spread. Meanwhile, he could slip through one of the secret exits from the city and continue plotting from exile. Give it a few years, and his return would be praised as that of a noble patriot restoring order and putting down craven, power-hungry malcontents. It would give him the political capital he needed to push through the remaining reforms, and it would repair his image. It would just take a little time. Inevitably the revolution would consume its own children. It was clear that Napoleon would accept this victory, as it would allow him to seal one of the fronts. At the same time, it would not look like a betrayal to Mahmud's Austrian allies. The city would be lost temporarily, but the good people of Istanbul would be sure to tire of the foreign French presence. A good king could turn adversity into strength. A good king could be patient. Centuries ago, the decline of the Byzantine empire had been temporarily halted by Alexius I. Mahmud was certain that Constantinople could gift him an equally great feat.

"Rest easy, Christendom. Barbarossa's host has come at last," said Marshal Hohenzollern.

"Eh? That doesn't sound like you Commander," replied Exelmanns.

"Yeah, my sister told me to say that when we got here."

The French Army stood outside the walls of Constantinople. Inside, the garrisons changed. The Sultan had shown his true colors, and the people now hurried to establish new leadership.

The Gem of the East threw open its doors for the French invaders. Walls that could not be breached by fire were breached by treachery. The Republic of Istanbul was born.


	46. Greater Germany

"He simply can't be allowed to live. Journalism sways people, and republicanism would undermine everything we're working for. Even if he's exiled, he'll influence those here and make it difficult for us to consolidate over the north," said the noble.

"Can't we just starve and flog his family until he recants?"

"I realize that you prefer to be merciful, but that's not an option in this case. The man is married to his cause. No family," he said with a mocking smirk.

"I see. Make him disappear then."

"I hear and obey, my Queen."

The man scurried out of the room. Pascal gave Rapunzel a dirty look.

"Don't look at me like that, it has to be done."

The chameleon looked rather skeptical. Rapunzel began to walk back to her bedchambers.

"Oh come on. I've even kept you alive all these years, and this is how you repay me?"

The chameleon raised an eyescale.

"Ok, so there isn't enough magic left to use on anything bigger. I still chose you, because you're my very best chameleon friend. Besides, republics can't fight wars. What's easier to rally around, a Queen or a President? Give the people a vote, and they'll vote to end the war."

The chameleon nodded.

"Well peace isn't an option. Austria would dismantle Corona if it had the chance. And then what?"

The chameleon shrugged. Rapunzel jumped into her bed, causing some down and thread to fly into the air and float there. She buried her face in a pillow, and silently wished she could wrap herself up in her hair. There wasn't enough of it anymore, though. She turned and looked at herself in the mirror.

"Life was so much simpler in the tower  
Look at you, still a sapling, still a sprout  
You know why we build forts and not bowers  
That's right... to keep Austriiaaannns out

Guess I always knew this day was coming  
Knew someday I'd go and leave the nest  
Collect taxes, pay the debt, reinforce inlets  
Patriaaaaaa knoooooows best!"

Rapunzel spun around, hopped off the bed, donned a spiky pickelhaube and began to mock goosestep.

"Country knows best  
Listen to your Empress  
It's a scary world out there  
Country knows best  
Serve and guard the homeland  
Keep the borders strong with care

Liberals, news, republicans, auslanders  
Rebels and rakes, the Hague  
Also armed barques  
Brits with shitty teeth  
Stop, no more, I'll just upset me"

She skipped by a window where servants were scraping off dried blood and congealed fat. As she passed, they all saluted.

"Fatherland is here, Empress will protect you  
People, here's what I suggest  
Stay true and loyal, don't betray and spoil  
Patriaaaaa knooooows best!"

She stopped and leaned against one of the battlements.

"Oh Pascal. Why do we have to grow up?"

A full decade since she had left the tower. In the end, she didn't get enough time to know her real father. At the funeral, she had wondered why he had disarmed the country. It was an act of mourning, her mother had explained. Over 2% of the country's population was in the standing army, which made it very important to the people. He had also reinstated torture in a melancholy rage. That had come in handy when the angry, workless youth became enchanted by the ideals of the then fledgling French revolution. Hands? Eyes? Legs? Teeth? Lose a few of those, and you begin to reconsider republicanism. As it turned out, that was where Snuggly Ducklings came from. She had asked why they couldn't be a trading country after that. Her mother shook her head sadly, said that Corona had few natural resources, except in Silesia, which they had taken from the Austrians. At the same time, it was too large to be like Switzerland or the Netherlands. Hegemony had to be established over Germany so that they could proclaim a Greater Germany and extract the resources there. Then, maybe, there could be peace.

"Seven PM, the usual evening lineup...  
Start on the wars and fight til the treasury's lean  
Polish uhlans, twelve-pounders, and infantry line up  
Fight again and by then fields are red more than green...

And I'll keep wondering and wondering...  
When will my Reich begin?  
Oh, when can the peace begin?"

The sun spent its last few flickering rays, and gas lamps began to glimmer to life. The sea glared back, a solid sheet of obsidian wrapping around the island. Mr. Johannes Glucksberg stepped forward, a jaunty spring in his step. One section of the bridge was too weak, and gave way. Unfortunately, he had never learned to swim. He drowned, and his corpse washed ashore the next day. A tragic end to a promising young journalist.


	47. Goodbye

Northern Holstein was his. Sjaelland was his. Only Weselton stood between him and the glory he so righteously deserved. The palace was completely unguarded, just like one in Copenhagen. What could those two old bastards be planning? They wanted him to conquer, but why? He jogged ahead, past the clanking rattle of an old steam boiler, through a twisted maze of pipes and stairways.

He arrived in the great hall of Duke Weselton's palace. His godfather was waiting for him, shirt stuffed and toupee coiffed, looking every bit like the ridiculous peacock he was. The duke turned around, looked at him, and did a little clucking dance. Hans walked forward.

"Alright, you old fool. It's time for you to spill your secrets," said Hans.

"My secrets? What secrets? Who are you, again?" asked the Duke.

"The senile act won't work on me."

"Who says it's an act? Old Weselton really is losing his mind. Even worse of an incompetent schemer that he was before!"

"Oh please."

"Oh, alright. Let's start with the elephant in the room. Your father never loved you. What a shocker, eh? Weselton really knows how to throw those punches! Bam, zip, zoom! Hey, want to know something else? It's really easy to discipline children into not ignoring one of your sons for literal years! He didn't do it because he was planning this!"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh yes, yes. Make the younger son suffer, lavish love and gold on the older ones, and he'll grow bitter. Give the eldest a boat, why not? Then the younger son will learn to plot and scheme, he'll grow ambitious. Your father read ancient stories of Denmark to you for a reason-so that Denmark would grow in your mind. Then you would try to make it again."

"And I succeeded! So Father succeeded, he made the heir he deserved. Good. Now die and let me claim my birthright."

"Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast. You're not the king Denmark needs. You're a schemer. Denmark is going to be in a fragile position. It needs someone dopey, likable, and easy to see as not a threat. It needs your brother Eric. Do you think countries are really run by kings anymore? They're run by intricate bureaucracies with kings making final decisions at most. With you, there's always the risk of some scandal or scheme coming to light that attracts too much attention. But with Eric, there is no such risk. He is a kind and simpleminded fool. In the past, kings were military leaders. Then they became schemers. Then bureaucrats. Now? Figureheads, symbols of the nation. Eric will make a good one."

"Excuse me? I've done all the work. I've conquered all of the land. It's mine by right and by steel."

"It is. But you don't have an heir, do you? You've been too busy to have legitimate children. When you die, it'll all go to Eric."

Hans' eyes began to narrow.

"You see, I've no legal heir, so I've designated my lands to fall to Eric. If you seize them and die, they go to Eric. Either way, they belong to him. Corona could contest this, but it's far too embroiled in the war, and in the coming peace, the other powers will have a vested interest in preserving fledgeling new Denmark, as it removes land from Corona's sphere of influence. Denmark will live," said Weselton.

"And if I don't die?"

"You're already dead, my boy. You see, you don't live as long as I have by actually being an incompetent schemer. If I was just a schemer at this station, I would be eliminated for being a threat. If I was just incompetent, someone else would gobble me up. But both? They'd like to take my land, but I'm an unpredictable element, and my vengeance might be just crazy enough to work, and I'm not a good enough schemer to be high on the list of threats. My plan to kill Elsa was just a red herring. If I really wanted to dispose of her, I'd give my men guns. But then Corona would destroy me. Your scheme, however, only worked so well through a ridiculous streak of luck. Who would've guessed the Princess would be so gullible, or eternal winter would set in, or that you'd be accepted as regent? You're an impatient fool who's blundered into success. And yet you still felt the need to brag about it. Such petty hunger for validation. The difference between you and me is that I actually had dreams, once. Everything about you is a lie designed to get as much power as you can, and even that was engineered. By the way, this whole speech was a distraction while the boiler overloaded. Steam explosions are quite deadly, but you could've escaped through a window or door. Goodbye Hans."

Hans began to turn and run, but the floor burst underneath him, and both he and Duke Weselton were engulfed in a cloud of smoke, boiling them alive.

The King is dead. Long live Eric I, King of **Denmark**.


	48. Good Ol' Boys

"Hey Grandpa, why do you always stop at that statue?"

"Well... it's a long story."

"Tell me!"

"Alright. It was back in the big one..."

What can I tell you? It was hot. Hotter than a steam bath. Hotter than the outback. Hotter than the devil's armpit as he gives himself a lava loofah down in the asscrack of the Earth. I'll be damned if it wasn't humid too. So basically, it was hot, wet, and pouring rain like God himself was pissing on us, and really, if you had told me that then, I woulda believed you. I mean, what kind of an asshole sends 500 fuckers to fight over 5000 of the Nip's best? And hell, we were shit. You know what our general ranked us? F. We deserved it too. All we knew how to do was dig trenches. Tell me what a trench is gonna do to a mad Jap cunt charging you with a goddamn katana? We could shit in them and then bury ourselves for the good that did.

Bataan Bunch, smartest generals this side of the Pacific, made us the first line of defense, and there was only one line. Them. Us. Port Moresby. Australia was being served up to the Emprah on a silver platter, and that was that. So that bludger MacArthur sends up out to go on a hike, and hike we did.

Hey kiddo? If someone gives you a free vacation to New Guinea, rip off their scrote and feed it down the bastard's throat. New Guinea is a nightmare. How we were supposed to know that? We were fucking idiots. We were the shittiest men in a shitty army that was about to get shredded by some Japs, and the Allies thought it was hilarious. Remember the rain? Rain don't go well with socks. Our feet got wet. Our feet got so wet they started rotting off. Had to get new socks, see? There weren't any new fucking socks, it was a ass sucking jungle! There were monkeys, and they threw shit at you, and you sucked it up because ammo's precious and you just eat that shit up with a shit-eating grin, sir, yes, sir.

Miserable. They had stairs there. Heh, bit of a prank to play on the Aussies, stairs. Those stairs weren't stairs. They were indents carved into sheer rock walls. You try climbing a rock wall without climbing gear before? It's fucking awful, and you fall and crack something, then you get back up. We were going yards per hour. Not miles, yards. Kokoda wasn't a trail. Kokoda was a sign from the natives saying "Go fuck yourself". I fell more times than I can count, probably cause my brain's been addled all these years from all those falls.

So we make camp, and I meet this guy. Calls himself Tommy, says he's got a bit of princely blood in him. Way, way, way back, his great-great-great-grandmum got knocked up by some visiting Dane. He's got this stupid dopey grin, and some ugly ass sideburns, and he looks like he belong more in a half-baked fairy tale than the army. I called his great-great-grandmum a British slag and said his princely heritage wasn't worth more than the slime congealing on my boots. Hoo boy. It was just a bit of banter, but he got red as a beet. His eyes, they were spitting venom. So I laid off. Still, the way he held himself nearly made me piss myself, and I didn't have enough water in me to piss.

Anyways, where was I? Yeah, fighting. Honestly, can barely recall it. You know what I remember? I remember crapping my pants over and over and over again. I remember drinking only coffee and eating crackers. I remember noise. I like to go out to the range now and then. They give you ear protection there. Not there. You want some fancy ear protection, you fuck off. Just a bunch of rattling and banging, and dumping mags into small animals that spooked you, and running and falling. I did a lot more falling. We ran a lot. There were so many of them, we had to run a lot. I got lost. There's nothing out there but leaves, and trees, and then leaves again, then you run into a pool full of mosquitoes because it just keeps raining and the bugs love you, and then you run into the same tree again except that you can't tell it's the same goddamn tree because a jungle is millions of fucking trees. Then you go around the tree and run straight into a chinky-eyed fucker, and he's dead before you even blink because your fucking muscles are thinking for you, and your muscles are hard cunts. Then you fall through the floor because it's not a goddamn floor, it's a tree you somehow got on top of, and you land on a fucker and you gut him with a knife because there's no time to think because he's gonna chop your head off if you don't and you need his stuff anyways. So then I run into Tommy again, and he's got this crazed look in his eyes, and his gun is pointing right at me. I crapped my pants again. He shoots, and I hear the bullet whiz by, and then I don't anymore because my ear just got blown off, and I grab it and scream because he's a crazy fucker and I'm rolling around in my own blood and the swampy water, and the bugs crawling all over me, and I catch a good look of a Jap with his head blown clean to bits, jaw bone dangling off a tree, and I realize that fucking Tommy just saved my life.

So it's just me and Tommy and the Kokoda. And then we run into some more guys, and it's fucking Kingsbury, and then it's not Kingsbury anymore because he's got the Bren and he's spraying that machine gun everywhere because we're completely fucking surrounded because that crotchhole MacArthur sent us up against 10 times more men than we had, and the barrel overheats and it steams everything up and he looks like a freaking avenging angel, pushing straight through that cloud of smoke and steam, and then that barrel is melting and his hands are melting off too, and he's glowing with firey light because he's on fire, and a Jap sniper blasts him, and then he's bleeding and they're bleeding and it's all over. And we move on, and nothing really makes sense because you don't sleep because they'll fucking kill you if you sleep, and you don't eat because there's nothing to eat, and you don't cry because the sky's crying for you.

And then there's mortars flying everywhere, and the ground is being torn apart, not like it wasn't already. The Kokoda was already littered with razor rocks everywhere, and now they were filling it with great big holes, and the world slows down and stops and I shove Tommy down because the mortar is bursting and the heat goes over the rock and scorches my back, and shrapnel fucks up his leg. You could see the bone and the meat, and it was just dripping off, like slow-cooked ribs. I wanted to cry, but instead I let the mosquitoes at him. See, we couldn't chop the limbs off and cauterize, because how the fuck am I supposed to start a fire or get some heat? I lost my knife twenty Japs back, let alone some medical saw. But those mosquitoes are brutal. They'll eat your meat any chance they get. So I watch them, and they just eat all of that flesh right off, and I snap away the bone because if he didn't lose that, it'd rot and he'd die, and he's crying and I'm not and I'm wishing I could be boxing a roo because getting my face rearranged is much nicer than that. Or digging another trench. Training us to dig fucking trenches. I scare away those vicious fucking flies before they eat the rest of him up, and then I'm carrying him the rest of the way, so he's like a turret gunner and I'm a tank.

Norrish got shot up four times in the chest. Every time he breathed, he was breathing out blood. His inner organs had been torn to bits. That fucker lived. This continent is a murder continent and we are its murder children. You know what I learned? Nothing in the world can kill Aussies. The nukes'll fall and the world will just be us and the roaches. And then a nade drops by my feet and I crap myself for the thousandth fucking time, and Tommy is hauling himself off my shoulder and he falls onto the nade, and that's it. He's gone. All I did for him was make fun of his stupid fucking Danish prince, and he died for me. I should've died, but I didn't. So he asks me to take care of his sister, and I do, and I made your dad and your aunts and your uncles, and I watched the sun set over Kokoda. Those shitty fucking cliffs littered with the Jap dead. You know what I realized then? Some of those fuckers would've had kids too, and maybe they did. And those kids, those kids weren't their dads. Those kids would grow up to be good folks, and maybe their dads were good folks too. And that's why... that's why you're not going to be your dad. You're gonna make me proud, and you're different from him. It's not just because you've got an axe wound and he had a pecker, it's cause I see that fire in you. That fire in your eyes that he used to have before he went out and came back a drunk and mean motherfucker. Good night sweetie. What do we say to the monsters?

"Fuck off, we're full!"

"And then we grab 'em and beat the snot out of them. You're a top fucking cunt, lassie, and don't you ever change."

* * *

**Author Notes:** Those mosquitoes weren't mosquitoes, those were blowflies.


	49. Highly Inappropriate Bondin:Intermission

Elsa laid down on the stone slab, thinking about times gone by. The room was so quiet, mostly because it was in the dungeons and when they had repaired the wall, they had removed the window. The manacles weren't on her at the moment, but they were there. A special design. #328, custom-made for the King and Queen in 1801 at the Dowlais Ironworks in Sheffield. Clean, elegant, stylish. Several pairs of them. Designed to restrict movement and hopefully contain the threat. Those were the notes at the bottom of the order sheet, written by her father's hand.

There was someone outside. An assassin? No, they wouldn't be loud in such a manner. Oh, of course that was it, Alexander was visiting again. Just as she turned her head, Alexander opened the door. He cocked an eyebrow.

"Planning a bit of light bondage, Queen Elsa?" asked the Tsar.

"No, just thinking... about my parents," replied Elsa.

"While lying on something vaguely like a bed and playing with manacles? I feel the need to repeat my first question."

"My parents ordered those manacles for me. Called me a threat. They didn't tell me either. One day, I requested some official budgets so that I could learn how everything really worked, and there it was, staring me in the face."

"So what happened next?"  
"Well, I panicked. Rolled up into a little ball, cried a little. Cried a lot. I got scared, and then came the news that they were lost at sea. I suppose that's where it started, me becoming this murderous monster, is right then and there. Now look at me, killing thousands of people at once."

"I understand completely."

"You do?"

"Yes. I killed my father as well. I didn't want to, but the nobles were agitating for it. One day, a man walks up to me, hands me a crown with my father's blood still on it. Tells me to grow up, it's time to be a man, then tells me to grow up again, because you have to be a king."

"Oh. That must've been awful."

"It was. Sometimes I still dream of him judging me. But what was there to be done? Grandmother had groomed me to be heir, not him. He was going to run the country into the ground. When the old pack leader grows infirm, he must be replaced or the whole pride will suffer."

"My father was still young though. He was a good king."

"He could never be half the king you are. Arendelle now consorts with Great Powers, trades with the whole world. Your currency and bureaucratic reforms have been top-notch. If he had gone on ruling? Perhaps Arendelle wouldn't see its first industrialization until fifty years later."

"Then why do I still feel so awful?"

"I ask myself the same question."

Alexander offered Elsa his hand, and she took it. She stood up. They walked outside the cramped little cell, into one of the icy halls.

"Of course, mistresses help too. I've plenty," said Alexander.

"But... ugh. All the men are so imperfect," replied the Queen.

"Always the perfectionist, aren't you?"

"Everyone is watching."

"They're not watching you have sexual relations, are they?"

"I'm watching!"

"So it's not about everyone else? Everyone has flaws, my dear. Everyone is a bit of a fixer upper."

_Is it the stupid way they talk? Or how they think with just their cock?_

_Or the irrational, illogical way they decide on all their lifes' affairs_

**Don't they read a single book? Even check if books are cooked?**

**I've never met a single man who reads the Prince by Machiavelli**

_You've got to forgive them all their flaws, because it's out of natural laws_

_To try and have sex with twelve or four or five or maybe even fifty three_

_They're just a bit of a fixer upper_

_But the meat is plenty fine_

_They're just a bit of a fixer upper_

_But it's easy with some wine_

**But I'm a Queen of Nation-State, my lovers should all be first-rate**

**Professors have brains and those youngsters have brawn but both is not my fate**

_Well, they're just a bit of a fixer upper_

_Either-or is still quite nice_

_They're just a bit of a fixer upper_

_Just give them a bit of the ice and spice_

**But they've never had to kill! Or even learned about laws and bills!**

**And their biggest cause for fucking is just to get a little thrill**

_They're just a bit of a fixer upper_

_You can always adjust to taste_

_They're just a bit of a fixer upper_

_Spares exist to fill a place_

"Are we really doing a song about extramarital affairs right now? The meter isn't even right." asked the Queen.

"Do you feel better?" asked the Tsar.

"Yes, actually."

"Well, that's what friends are for."

Their little song and dance number had taken them into the dining hall, and Elsa reached over and grabbed a bottle of wine. She poured a glass for both herself and the Russian Emperor.

"Here's to friendship," said Elsa as she reached out her glass.

The Tsar clinked his glass against hers, completing the toast.

"And here's to a healthy stable of lovers, which I hope we both soon have," replied the Tsar.

They both drank.

"You know, I'd love to tour the West when this war is finally over. Not a tour like Peter's though, just one to see all of the beauty and wonder there is. I can think of no one better as a guide than you and your family."

"I'd love that, Alex."

"To a new tour of the West! May St. Petersburg one day rival all the cities of the world!"

"To St. Petersburg!"

They toasted again, and downed some more of Arendelle's finest wine. At the speed at which they were drinking, they hardly had the chance to fully appreciate the subtle aromas and floral flavors of the drink, but that wasn't their most pressing concern.

"Hey, Alex?"

"Hmm?"

"You've always wanted Finland, right?"

"It is the rightful land of Russia, ever since it was claimed by Novgorod."

"Well, this is the perfect time, isn't it? Sweden's real king is an invalid, and they're being ruled by a council of military leaders. They haven't found a suitable "son" for the good king yet, and their government lacks legitimacy. They're still drained of manpower and money because of that idiot Gustav. Who's going to be able to help them now? For that matter, who will care? The very existence of government by the military threatens the stability of monarchy. Let's go ahead and invade them."

"You're absolutely right, Elsa. To invading Finland!"

"To invading Finland!"

They drank again. 1810, a year of fresh blood on the snow. The Portuguese had openly declared against the French, forming the Fifth Coalition, and an invasion of the Iberian peninsula was needed to maintain Napoleon's control on the continent. Now Russia would add a new war to that list: an invasion of Finland.

* * *

**Author Note:** Point of clarification, Elsa probably didn't cause the storm that killed her parents, although cold can change weather patterns. What's important is that she was scared, then her parents died, and we've established that fear causes her powers to activate, so she blames herself. And really, isn't that what's most important? That you blame yourself for everything and eventually jump off a bridge due to too much repressed self-loathing?


	50. Hispania

"The Spanish peasantry are getting upset."

"Are they now?"

_Anna had volunteered for the Forlorn Hope. It would keep morale up, to see that a general was as willing to risk their life as the rank and file. The assault wouldn't be too dangerous anyways. Napoleon had successfully decapitated the Spanish command structure, and the garrison commanders would be completely unaware that war was upon them._

"It seems they're rather upset that we're looting from their homes and land."

"Well, kill off the rebel leadership and the movement will collapse."

_She had a mask in her kit now. It had been adapted from a design used by Coronan miners as they worked in Silesia. The Stabbington Brothers and other elements of the Secret Police had weaseled out rumors of a new British weapon design. The men readied the ladders. They crept forward through the inky blanket of night, and threw the ladders up onto the walls. Once they were up, the other brigades would move out of hiding and assault. If the enemy resisted, they had to buy as much time for the next wave as they could, at the price of their lives if needed._

"Except we haven't found any leadership so far, that or all the men we've captured are far too dedicated to crack. Either isn't a good sign."

"So you're seriously saying autonomous cells of rebel movements are popping up all across the country without any outside direction?"

_She was almost up the walls. With one hand, she removed the "ribbons" in her hair. A quick rearranging, and she had a garrote. She grabbed him, strangled him, threw him off the walls. He splattered onto the grass with a wet thud. Then she scrabbled up the ladder and took a look around the walls. In moments, she spotted the figure she was looking for, walking through the middle of the fort, oblivious. There were prayers coming from a church somewhere. She shouldered her musket, braced herself, and fired. The bullet hurtled through the air, struck the man in the leg. It shattered, bone fragments and meat forming a neat little circle on the gravity. The sound of the shot cracked the air, and so did his warbling scream. Once more, the silence came. The Spaniards would know now. Other French on other parts of the walls lit their torches. They were up as well. Hopefully, with their walls already gone, and the commander dead, they would surrender quickly._

"Can't we kill them? We've destroyed massive armies before."

"They blend back into the people with every strike."

_A few of them ran up, then immediately threw down their guns. First responders, eh? There were too many French on the walls for a couple of men to stem the flow. The prayers had stopped. All the statues around were bright and clean, although they looked a bit scratched up. Almost as if they had been scraped clean. Not a bit of patina to be seen. Anna ordered her men to advance further in, but to do so cautiously. There should be more enemy reinforcements coming, or someone to surrender. It was far too quiet. Her eyes widened._

"_Masks on!"_

"So kill the people! Make pyramids of their skulls, intimidate them into surrender."

"Are you listening to yourself, Hohenzollern? That's brutality! Madness!"

_The shells slammed into the stone walls. Green fumes steamed up from them, engulfing them. They tickled at her mask, probed for weakness. She was stumbling, walking through the cloud. It was everywhere, blocking out her lenses and hiding the world away. She found her way out of the cloud, knees hit the cold hard rock. Above her was the clear sky. The gas was fading away. Behind her lay bodies of those who had asphyxiated, frozen in half-twitches, arms grasping at their throats, eye bulged out and grotesque, flesh blue and clotted. Others had misstepped with the masks blinding them, and had fallen from the walls to grisly deaths. _

"I don't see you coming up with any ideas."

"What about your sister? Why don't we bring her in and freeze the whole damn country?"

_Nuns wheeled up some of the new modified Nock guns. Nuns? The guns began to spray over the walkway, a bullet hail drenching the walls. It had only lasted a few seconds, but another dozen of them were dead. God only knew what kind of havoc improved guns like that and longer lasting gas could make. Would it even be possible to make assaults anymore? Another shell slammed into them. Private DuPont was vaporized, leaving not a trace behind. A hot white pain shot up her spine, a cutting heat embedded in her back. She reached backwards, felt a slight wetness. Was it her blood? It didn't matter. She reloaded her gun. Took aim, missed. The shot was good enough though, it blasted away a bit of rock and one of the nuns lost her footing and met her Lord. Anna affixed her bayonet, charged, and ran the other nun through. The nuns on the other side of the wall were also dispatched. Down the stairs, to ground level. Down again, into a twisting maze lying beneath the fort._

"That'll do the same thing, just slower and not as clean. Everyone'll starve, even us. Do you want to make another Russian campaign?"

"We can't sit by and do nothing, they'll whittle us down."

_Her depth perception was awful with one eye. Her vision wasn't the best anymore, even in ideal circumstances. Smoke was filling the corridors, they were burning the whole place down. The acrid stench of fire filled the air. That was her world, a tangled tumbleweed of halls, filtered through smoke and haze, then filtered again through a narrow lens, then one last time through her one good eye. She saw someone leader-like through the smoke. She ran towards the figure. It was an old woman, the Mother Superior. Kill her, and the defenders collapse. They both drew swords. The smoke trailed from the Marshal's mask and uniform, like wings and horns. The nun was clumsy with hers, her thrusts and chops effortlessly dodged or parried. Anna brought down her saber with crushing force, and the nun put up her guard. Again, and again came the blows, with hammer force. Finally, one of the strikes knocked the nun's sword away, and it hit the ground with a clatter. The impact force traveled down the nun's arm with terrifying power. With her other arm, she makes the sign of the Cross, and tries to run. Anna moved in to deliver the killing blow, when suddenly a sharp pain shot through her back. She doubled over, clutching herself as the nun makes her escape. Then, nothing. Once again, silence, but for the crackling of the flame and the whimpering cries of the dying. The fort was theirs._

"They have to be getting orders from the British. We'll push into Portugal, seize the ports, and then the orders will stop and the resistance will end."

"God have mercy on all our souls."


	51. Horrifically Inappropriate Moral

They had taken control of a pub. Much of the wooden furniture had been torn out and converted into barricades. The beer stores were currently being depleted at an astonishing rate. Anna was digging into a lemon cake as she walked. It was a good time to celebrate, her sister was finally back with her. She wiped a bit of orphan blood from her boots. Elsa was sitting at the end of the bar, eyes fixed firmly on a still full mug of beer. Anna took the seat next to her sister.

"Hey there sis! Why are you so down?" asked Anna.

"Are we the bad guys?" asked Queen Elsa.

"Wha?"

"It would all make sense, wouldn't it? We're the evil Empire. We've got the brilliant warlord who's won dozens of crushing victories as he spreads his domain across the land. We're crushing all the native kingdoms and bringing them into the 'European system'. Doesn't that name just send shivers up your spine? Look at me! I'm a literal Witch-Queen making an icy trail of death across the continent. Does that sound like the good guys to you?"

"Oh come on, you're exaggerating."

"You've got orphan blood on your boots."

"They were harboring insurgents! It had to be done. Besides, I found this nice little lemon cake before I burned the place down, so it's like God giving me a thumbs up."

"Killing. Orphans."

"Orphans aren't all good, you know! If you're right, and we're villains, then we're not good, and we're orphans, so if you're right you can't be right! Argumento adidas absurdlio, quod ergo facto, killing orphans isn't especially bad."

"Except all you've done is reduce the badness down to the level of killing regular civilians, which is still really, really evil."

"Well, maybe I'm not as good at this knowing things thing as you, and maybe I can't argue about this! Maybe we are the bad guys! Oh god, oh god. What the hell is wrong with me?"

Anna turned to face the bar, and downed a mug of beer in one gulp.

"It's like this every year! Every time, this same conversation, and all because of me! Every year, I try to convince you to be happy, and it doesn't work, and... and I know why... oh god, I know why... I've always known..."

Anna grabbed a bottle of absinthe as tears trickled down her face.

"It's because of me! Always me. I ruined your coronation, I ruined your castle, I'm ruining your life right now! Because I'm a big stupid dummy who doesn't understand anything. I'm not... I'm not as good as those books as you..."

"Anna, no, that's not what I meant-"

"All the words, they get so confusing. And I'm reading one about population dem... demo... demographics, and one thing sticks in my head, just one thing because nothing makes sense because I'm not that smart, and it's... the second son, throughout history, has often found solace in war. I was the spare, but I could be like my hero! I could be Joan!"

"Anna..."

"It was everything I dreamed it could be! I was the hero, I was useful, I was finally good at something! But then... then your sad eyes, oh god... please... you were so sad all the time... I wanted to take care of everything, make sure you didn't worry, make you happy, but I couldn't! I couldn't! I wasn't good enough, I've never been good enough! I'm... just the screwup."

"You're not a screwup, Anna!"  
"Yes I am! Look at us! We're going to have this argument again and again and again because you're just so good, and kind, and you can't bring yourself to hurt anyone, and I've got an ice cold heart full of murder. When I met a snow monster, first thing I did was attack, then I attacked it again! Again and again and again and again and I can't stop myself from thinking... in the end... we're going to kill each other, aren't we?"

"I could never hurt you."

"But you'll have to because I'm a monster. You'll have to because you love everyone and I don't, and I kill them. It hurts you so much to cause pain, and I keep bringing you back here and making you. Tell me the truth... it hurts you to be here, doesn't it? All I do is hurt you."

"You don't hurt me, Anna, why would you even say that?"

"LIAR!"

Anna grabbed a beer bottle, and threw it into the ground, where it shattered into a thousand crystalline pieces. Outside, the sky rumbled as thunderclouds gathered. The warm glow of the pub lanterns made a bridge of light stretching from Anna towards the outside. Anna wiped snot from her nose as she tried to hold back the gulping, choking sobs. She failed. Raindrops fell into the absinthe.

"Please stop crying. Please. I want to see that smile again. You told me that smile couldn't ever break."

"A little bit of water improves the flavor."

"Why are you drinking right now? Please, stop drinking. Look at me. I care about you. Stop crying, please."

"Drinking is good. Feels good."

"Is this why you drink? Because you're scared that you're hurting me?"

"I'm not scared for them. Who cares if I kill them? I've never met them, I don't give a damn about their friends or family. But every time I kill, I know it hurts you. You care about them even though you don't even know them. You're just so... so kind, and sweet, and giving..."

"Anna, please stop crying. You don't hurt me and I could never hurt you."

"You say that now, but I'm still a killer and a monster, and you hate that. You just want everyone to be happy, and you work so hard... so hard to make everyone happy, and I just burn it all down. All it'll take... is one bad day, one bad day for either of us, to push us over the edge and then it's all over."

"You're not a monster! Why do you keep saying that?"

"Really now? Because we're too different, you and I. You were always the good girl, the Queen, always studying, learning, trying to see every angle. And then there was me, the spare, the fuck-up. I don't understand how you can care about everyone so much and not go crazy! How are you so perfect when... when I'm this! I have orphan blood on my shoes!"

"It's not any worse than other blood, I can clean it off, stop crying, please."

"We're just going to go through this again, and again, forever, until one of us snaps, because I'm a killer and you're the good Queen. And it wouldn't be so bad, except you're always so sad. Elsa, go home. I'm killing you. I'm taking your soul and I'm smashing it to itty-bitty bits."

It was raining outside. Anna walked out the door, bridge of light beneath her feet. Elsa stared out into the rainy field. Raindrops plinked off of Anna's helmet.

Elsa crossed the bridge, and hugged Anna from behind.

"I can be a bad guy," said Elsa.

"I don't want to make you be a bad guy, I don't want to hurt you anymore."

"No, I want to be a bad guy."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. Kant's full of shit anyways. And you can't really do any sort of utilitarian moral calculus in practice. Who's to say what's right and wrong, really?"

"I didn't understand any of that."

"Okay. I'd kick a million puppies for you. I'd kick a billion. I'd tear out a baby's beating heart and sacrifice it to Satan."

"You really mean that?"

"In the end, all we have is each other. You're worth the world to me. Let's bully those small countries. We'll build an evil Empire with Napoleon. We'll kill all of the orphans, all of them. We'll harvest people's skulls."

"You mean..."

"Yup. I'd burn down the women, poison the houses, and rape the water."

"Do... do you want to build a skull throne?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. Doesn't even have to be a skull throne."

Elsa held Anna, and kissed her softly on the back of her head. The rain came pouring down, bridge of light between them. The blood washed off of Anna's boots.


	52. His Garment Passes

"_The guerrilla must swim in the people as the fish swims in the sea." - Mao Zedong_

The spirit of resistance that now fueled the Spanish insurgency was also burning bright in South America. At the same time the Spaniards were throwing off the French yoke, Southern American countries were throwing off the Spanish yoke. It was the end of an era. Just as the French were finding that occupation of Spain would be impossible, so the Spanish were finding that continued colonial rule was impossible. Nationalistic fervor had gripped the continent.

The 1810s would see revolutions break out everywhere. Since the French had forced Ferdinand out, the climate had become ideal for republicanism. Spain was too busy fighting for its life to contest these little rebellions, and by the time the Napoleonic Wars were over, the colonies were in full revolt. Spanish men would be shipped overseas to stem the revolutionary tide, and though they would fight hard, the guerrilla swims in the people as the fish swims in the sea. The French could not win and the Spanish could not win because they were unwilling to drain the ocean. They had two solutions: either to win over the hearts and minds of insurgents and convince them that continued colonial rule was desirable, which was almost impossible given Ferdinand's reactionary tendencies and the burgeoning soul of rebellion and nationalism present. The 1820s would roll around with victory still nowhere in site. Indeed, victory would be impossible. There is no man strong enough to stop the tide from rolling in.

With the 1830s passing by, the old colonies were reborn as new countries, independence finally being recognized. 300 years prior, they had been subjugated by the call for God, Glory, and Gold. It was an old way of empire, and the old ways were well and thoroughly dead. But with the closing of one chapter of imperialism begins another. War is the way of mankind. The conservative imperialism was replaced by a new imperialism, the Liberal Imperialism. And with that, came new and fantastic means of slaughter. The roots of it were born then. Macgregor Laird, one of the first to sail deep into the Heart of Darkness, was born with the war. The old imperialism would die with the war. As the war came to a close, new chemicals would be isolated. As the 1840s came into being, technologies would rise as surely as revolutions did. New advances in medicine would finally seal that grave of Christian men. Those clumsy, prototype machine guns, incendiaries, and chemical weapons used to try and stop Elsa's magical powers would see rapid development as new doctrines of war were fleshed out. With those new weapons, the savage continent would be tamed. Steam would replace sail, and steam would give ship the strength to go upriver into the African interior, a vast, unknown plateau. Steam would also demand the establishing of worldwide bases to refuel ships as they patrolled the vast blue seas. Industry had remade peace. Soon, it would remake war. In the New Imperialism, at last countries had the means to enact death on an industrial scale. One hundred staunch British would now be the equal of ten thousand whirling dervishes with the power of a Maxim gun on their side. Defensive tactics and offensive strategy. Man would fly. Man would fly, and man would kill. The bomber would always get through. Stronger than one? Stronger than ten? No, stronger than a million men!

And in the trenches of Verdun, men cursed Elsa's name in vain. They wept as clouds of death passed over and fire rained from the sky. Surely if these abominable weapons of war had not been invented to defeat her, then they would not have been invented at all. They swore in vain. The power of great trends was propelling them forward, and all great men were doing was grabbing onto the hem of His Garment as it passed. Perhaps the war would not have come as soon, but come it would. The ideas which had been planted and spread to the sound of guns a century earlier had grown old and strong, and yearned to grow stronger still.

Liberalism. Conservatism. Communism. Capitalism. Fascism. Nationalism. There is no greater danger in the world than a new idea. A new idea demands that it change the world, and so many dwell in and depend on the old world. The counter-revolutionaries must be purged. The mud races removed. We must civilize the savage and help them however way we can. We must acquire additional resources to increase the prosperity of mankind. We must suppress those who dream of freedom. The urredeemed land must be reclaimed. Once, wars had been fought by men. A man, no matter how strong, can only kill so many. Now wars would be fought by ideas, wielding the terrible and sublime weapons of industry. There is no idea of the modern age that is not drenched thoroughly in the blood of innocents. The conquests of the African continent, and the barbarities done by civilized, liberal men in the name of progress. The brutal slaughter of young students by saber and shot for crimes of thought. The Blood Purges and great famines of Mao. The addiction of a whole people to a wasting, degenerating drug for the sake of new trade and resources. The wholesale extermination of peoples for nothing more than long-diluted blood. The killing of men, women, and children for the sake of patches of dirt. The ideas called out, asking for their brave new worlds to be made, and people answered. One chapter was closing. Another began. Only the dead have seen the end of war.


	53. Heir

Rapunzel I, heir to Frederick William II of House Hohenzollern. Elsa I, heir to Aaron IV Asbjorn of House Hohenzollern. Both inheritances in clear violation of the Salic Law. Even decades before, this would've been an outrage. The War of the Austrian Succession had been fought over this exact issue. These two successions, however, had occurred with barely a whimper of protest. Granted, war was engulfing Europe for other reasons, but it was indeed a sign of the times. The notion that the crown might pass to some distant cousin simply because he had been born through male-line descent only, and not to the heir the kingdom had spent years getting to know, due to the moldy old dictums of a long dead Emperor seemed quaint, if not blatantly ridiculous. When the personal union between Hannover and Great Britain broke, it was not because of the Salic Law alone, but because Britain no longer wanted the burden of continental obligations, and the state could at some point lead to tensions threatening the balance of power.

In the Arendelle palace, a wet nurse fed two babies. The two twins, a boy, and a girl, were born for great things. The boy, a dirty blonde with precociously bright eyes, was Napoleon's heir, the future Napoleon II of the French Empire. The blonde would fade from his hair after a brush with death by tuberculosis in his early 20s, during which he was famously cold as a corpse, but the fire never would. Here was a man born to be his father's son. He would expand the French Empire across the globe, founding the House of Bonaparte-Hohenzollern through his marriage to his second cousin, Gothel Hohenzollern. The girl had dark brown hair and a knowing gaze. She would ascend to the throne as Elsa II Maria, presiding as figurehead in a government where she no longer had power, as Norway's industrialization hit full force. She would inherit her mother's love of architecture, becoming a friend of Norwegian Romantic architect Hermann Major Schirmer, using her practical and frugal nature combined with a love of the austere beauty of ice synthesized with the Dragon style and Schirmer's ideas to create a style of building now known as Draconic Functionalism, an early forerunner to Modernism, and an inspiration to many Soviet architects. In recent times, the style has come under fire for being emblematic of the Communist regime, and some young architects have taken to calling it Funky Dragon style (after Funkis, functionalism, and the Dragon style). It is a political issue that transcends parties in a peculiar way, as rightists and leftists will defend it for being a national symbol and a symbol of the good that Communism did, and at the same time, rightists and leftists will attack it for being a Communist symbol and being staid and backward-looking.

As for Sweden? The Junta had found themselves an heir, though it was too late to keep the Finnish territories. Young Bernadotte, a military officer of France, graciously accepted the offer. Far from becoming a French puppet, Bernadotte would work with his military colleagues in revitalizing the country, implementing reforms in education, trade, and the woefully outdated army. Although it would not be a new Golden Age for Sweden, and Sweden was no longer the Great Power it was in the 17th century, it would see a restoration of national prestige, and if the Swedes were no longer numerous, their reforms would make them elite, and many a Soviet would meet their end at the hands of the skilled White Swedish forces. It was a sign of the times that an heir could simply be brought in, despite having no blood connection to the old family.

In Arendelle's armed forces, the 4th Light Infantry would distinguish itself in leading the assault on Stockholm and other cities. The regiment soon earned the nickname of the "Ice Troopers", and was eventually reorganized into the 1st Grenadiers of Arendelle, the "Ice Troopers", in the 1834 military reorganization. When the monarchy fell and the Communists took power, the regiment would survive as the 7th Mechanized Infantry, and continue to receive honors and recognition for bravery. The Ice Troopers would be granted the title of Vanguard of the Worldwide Revolution by Stalin himself, and would eventually have the honor of hoisting the flag of the USSR over Krasinski Palace in Warsaw, in an image that has become one of the most enduring of the Second World War.

Children are the future. What kind of child is more precious than an heir?


	54. House Insurance

**Author** **Notes:** It hurts me in the freedom glands to write this. I hope you're happy.

* * *

The Canadian situation was dire. To the south, a hostile enemy with great manpower and short supply chains. America was so close, and Britain so far, far away. Was it even possible to defend against a foe in such a superior position?

The Canadians needn't have worried.

The American attempts at war, if it could even be called that, were hilariously inept at best. The militia had poor morale, poor discipline, and were relying on a Canadian Revolution to occur. It didn't. In fact, the blustering of the Americans led to the stiffening of Canadian resolve. Indeed, some of the American forces even refused to cross the border and actually invade. The feared invasion came to a few burned buildings and poorly thrown insults from American troops.

Meanwhile, on the lakes, rival naval commanders faced off in a thumb-twiddling contest for the ages. There were a few minor skirmishes, but neither side was able to win a decisive victory, and much of the conflict was really the ship building competition they were having to try and secure naval superiority. They built boats and did essentially nothing with them.

On the coasts, a couple British ships went around raiding and generally causing havoc, even burning down the White House. Every once in a while, the Americans would manage to do something, anything at all, and these times were heralded as great victories.

After a few months of actual fighting, merchants on both sides were sick of losing trade and money, and pressured their governments. The British, still very busy with a Napoleonic Wars well in progress, agreed to pay the Americans 25,000 pounds to repair their capital and to restore the pre-war status quo. This was consistent with the British policy of buying peace and giving generous terms, but perhaps it would have been better to demand a surrender. From then on, the Americans would mark down the war as one of their victories, despite being nothing of the sort. The British were simply loath to devote forces to a conflict barely more intense than the average bar fight, one far less violent than your typical rock concert. The American forces could be described as laughable at best, and not as a force at all, at worst, and only the efforts of generals like Winfeld Scott after the war would change that. The American gunboats were useless against actual warships. Victory brought about the American Era of Good Feelings, a time best described as one in which all Americans on both sides of the aisle fellated each other for defeating a world-wide empire. Never mind that they actually had a very good position, and that their difficulties were mostly self-inflicted as they did not believe in a strong standing army or navy. They had done the impossible and humbled the British Lion. For Canada, they had defeated an invasion force and fought well and admirably in what few battles had occurred. Such intense levels of combat would not be seen again until the first hockey game was held.

For the British, the affair had cost them a very large amount of money through lost trade and needed supply, and had amounted to less casualties than a single Napoleonic Skirmish. The entire war was forgotten before it was even over, and the only noteworthy thing about it was the expense. Like a $150 dollop of food paste at a very high end restaurant, it did not satisfy and left them only with a vague feeling of disappointment and regret.

Nowadays, America has a professional standing army and navy. There's a very good reason for that. Some say that standing armies can lead to tyranny, and this is valid enough. But standing armies also allow for the fighting of conflicts tougher than a stiff breeze.


	55. Insurgency: Intermission

A thousand wheels spun within wheels, covered with eyes gazing into the infinite. They hurtled through the air, a simple directive in their primitive half-minds. They whizzed along the ground, the angry buzzing of the drone swarm composing a song of death. They did not think. They were created with simple pattern recognition only. If it looked like the enemy, it was the enemy. Terminate it, and terminate all life signs near it, then return to base. Mistakes would be made. Mistakes were inevitable when combating the threat. It was very efficient, though, and the terror campaign of the locals had to stopped. An icy detonation. All local targets have ceased life functions. It was a very humane way of doing things. It made mistakes, yes, but the cold, heartless eyes were more discriminating than the bombs and bullets.

On June 22nd, 2026, Raytheon, in partnership with Thales, rolled out the Electronic Land-based Shocktrooper Automaton, the first model in a new generation of drone warfare.

Squadrons of men went door to door, searching for weapons and other illicit items. Weapons, mines, anything that was a sign of resistance. Those who were caught were brutally punished. Sedition could not be tolerated. If the doors were at risk of being booby-trapped, break through the window. If those too, were likely to be trapped, make a new door. Register and disarm the population. Ensure they do not have the means to vent their anger.

Divide and conquer. Those who despised their country, or who were greedy for power were squirreled out. These men were given strength, so that they might oppress their countrymen for them. They were more familiar with the land, and thus more effective. Splinter their identity, for a bundle of sticks is stronger than fifty standing alone. Turn neighbor against neighbor, and poison their trust.

Win their hearts. Promise a better life once the war is over. It does not matter if it is true. Build for them, a thousand petty things. Armies could build forts and bridges, why not other things?

Try everything. The spirit of the people must be broken. The people must not sing.

Mines, crude things, were laid along the roads. When the wires were tripped, the bombs would explode and spray shrapnel over whatever hapless fool stepped on it. If they took the time to clear the road, it was a chance to harry them. Launch desperate, suicidal attacks if needed. If one man can reach the wagons with flame and starve ten or twenty, then was it not worth it? Burn their supplies. Burn your food. Why not? You wouldn't need food where you were going. The mountains, the hills, the plains, they would all have eyes. The Ottoman Sultan offered a suggestion. With burning ships, if a skeleton crew was kept on the boat as it was set to ram, the boats would be far more effective, even if the crew was guaranteed to perish. The same could be done with smaller payloads. If the bomb killed many, was it not more cost-effective than facing the formidable skills of Napoleon in open combat? Of course, those that seemed innocent or pure would have to deliver the strikes. But how could one die better than facing fearful odds?

When blood flows like water, then the sea cannot be stopped. If you keep the tide from breaking, it will break you instead.

1811 came rolling in.


	56. Infighting

The walls of Constantinople rung with mild disagreement. Indeed, it was almost uncivil. Voices were even being raised! Such a time called for blood purges.

After all, what went into the revolution? The Balkans were still awash with malcontents, and now their continued agitation raised some questions. For the conservative populists, the answer was clear-crush them. It was the same for more radical nationalists. However, wasn't it in the spirit of republicanism to let the Balkans self-determine their fate? What justification did they have for repression? For other nationalists, it was also clear that these Balkan peoples deserved their own nations.

What of the reforms, then? Should they be continued, or stopped? They went against tradition. They were needed to strengthen the nation. They would disrupt the fabric of society and ruin livelihoods. They would bring new ways of living. They would destroy the character of the Turkish people. They would enable its rebirth in infinitely more splendor.

Indeed, the disagreements were mild and easily settled. The blood purges would soon begin. Was there anything as petty as disagreement in ideas? They were words and turns of phrase only, minor things. Yet, was there anything so divisive? These differences were irreconcilable. They could not simply agree to disagree. A nation that stagnated was one that was devoured by the hungry and lean.

The rulers of Constantinople prepared to remove their enemies. Progress had to be made at any cost. It was for their own good. We know better.

What made a revolutionary? Ambition. Only the ambitious could dream so large. Arrogance. What else could it be called to think that one was able to run the world better than those who had already clawed their way to the top? Such a man would usurp the heavens and become the sun. Competence. Only the most supremely skilled could actually bring the world down around them. The fist that rises up must be able to destroy all others. To succeed, whether it be leading an insurgency or overseeing the forced production of rubber to fund your rebellion. Determination. To try and again and again. To never surrender, even though the road is hard and the end is nowhere in sight. To stand by your dream, even from the misery of an African prison cell. Friends. Not even the greatest man can defeat the whole world alone. Allies must be gathered, and a certain charisma must be had. Men that would listen and teach. An Italian eagle to aid the German one. Hope. That the ideals you preach really could change the world. That the suffering you've seen while you toured the world would end. The red dawn would also be a bright one. Innovation. New ways must be forged to replace the old, for people do not live if their lives cannot be given meaning. Great leaps forward must be made to replace the dead and empty past. Paranoia. The enemies of the revolution were everywhere. If you seek to change the world, be prepared to fight those who like the status quo. Is it really paranoia if they are out to get you? Execute your enemies, then execute the executioners. Pragmatism. After all, wasn't the point of revolution to disregard the old rules and forge a new world? Not all principles work in all situations. Do what works, because the whole world stands against you, and every advantage must be seized greedily. Attack on Christmas, and seize the Hessians. Destroy the Ancient Regime before socialism has fully taken root. What is the difference between the worker and the peasant anyways? Listen to the pale ghosts, for they have humbled your ancient land. Gold and victory can replace honor anyways.

When the dust settles, and power is yours, what then? Whoever you relinquish it is undoubtedly a lesser man than you, for they did not have to fight the world and win. They would not run the nation as well as you could. They did not have the character and strength to remake the world, they could only take it once it was handed to them. Who needed them? So many principles were already betrayed, so much of the ancient order and old rules disregarded. Why not make one last betrayal? Betray the revolution itself.

Not everyone would. But it only took one Caesar to throw the die and cross the Rubicon, and the revolutions would be made by many men. And when Caesar crosses, the Senate steps will run red with blood and the gulags will howl with screaming. The death squads will thresh and the re-education camps will reap. Red, the blood of counter-revolutionary men. Black, flesh rotting off a corpse.

It is not a surprise that revolutions betray themselves and devour their children. It is a surprise that some don't. What sort of a man can fight the world, tear down all the old ways, forge a new world, and then refuse a reward for their service? That such a thing happens at all is a sign of humanity's true and noble nature.


	57. Industrialization

John Blenkinsop was a man with a plan. Others thought that rail locomotives could only haul four times their weight, a number which was impressive, but hardly practical. Blenkinsop knew he could test that limit and break through. With a shortage of horses brought about by the war, the time was right. In 1811, he modernized the Middleton rail using a design of his own invention. The results were nothing short of miraculous. The little 5 ton machine he built could haul a full 90 tons of material. Things were going to change.

Arendelle in 1802 was a tiny backwater. It exported fish, timber, and silver, and imported basically everything else. The industrial reforms of Queen Elsa the Magnificent would change that. The clear skies of Bergen blackened with the infant mewling of industry, as factories spread across the hills. The Arendelle industrial revolution did not start with textiles, as so many did. It started with wood products and cold, hard ice. Rails spread across the country to facilitate the rapid harvest of natural resources, and ice and lumber flowed into the capital. There, ice would be prepared and shipped across the world, while the timber was processed by sawmills, then consumed by the stinking, cranking processes of the paper mills, or reshaped and cut to form in new furniture factories. More and more boats were converted to whalers, due to an impressive subsidy granted to the industry by the Queen. This boom led to new whaling techniques being created, and Arendelle became the whaling capital of the world, to its great prestige. A few bouts of successful industrial espionage allowed the stealing of chocolate secrets, although a few spies nearly died in the process. The 19th century would see the birth of a native chocolate industry, one that would eventually be bought out and merged with the up and coming Hershey Company to form the Freia-Hershey Chocolate Corporation. Traditional Arendelle chocolate designs would inspire concept artists for the hit arcade racer, Sugar Rush. Jobs brought people. Arendelle was sparsely populated in 1802, with even the capital having only 10,000 or so souls. Over the next 50 years, the country would sustain an average population growth of 3.5% a year, an astonishing rate that would almost sextuple the size of the country by mid-century.

Industry would also destroy the old ways. Craftsmen were suddenly made redundant, their skills now useless in a mechanized world. Some would adapt, and others would not. Work enriched the soul, and lack of work ruined it. Destruction was to be expected with creation.

Corona was industrializing as well. Machines were imported. At the start of the 19th century, they mostly exported timber and grain. Britain had an endless appetite for these raw materials, and, following the end of the wars, it would happily trade away industrial machines. Corona seized upon this, and copied the designs. By the 1840s, Corona and its North German satellites had almost completely wiped away their trade imbalance. They imported 13 million pounds of goods, and exported 8 million pounds of goods, of which almost half were now manufactured. Their imports had changed from machines to raw materials. Heavy tariffs now choked British manufacture out while reinforcing Coronan industry further. Although the peace made at the end of the Napoleonic Wars had stripped Corona of most of its western possessions, it fought tooth and nail to keep the Ruhr and a strip of land leading to it, which would come to be known as the Ruhr passage. It needed every bit of coal and ore it could get. When Napoleon II and his cousin Louis-Napoleon overthrew the French government to establish a new French Empire, they did so with state-of-the-art needle guns manufactured in the heart of the Prussian provinces. For her support, Napoleon II's dear mother-in-law received the Alsace-Lorraine region and its coal fields.

Corona had always had the blood. War was in their nature, ever since the ancient days of chivalry. The Coronan people had been made through a mixture of Germans, a race who had shattered invincible Rome, and Poles, whose horsemanship and valor had allowed them to survive between two great empires for hundreds of years. It was an impressive pedigree for a warrior people. The industrialization now gave them the iron. With blood and iron in hand, Corona could now plunge the war into not one, but two world wars. It had all started with a little engine that could, the Salamanca, chugging along a lonely British rail.


	58. Ia! Ia!

"Ia! Ia! Triton ftaghn! May your house reign eternal! Great Britain is friend to anyone who would resist the tyranny of Napoleon."

Why must the surface dwellers plague him so? Were they not satisfied with taking Ariel from him? Now they were asking him to intervene in one of their petty conflicts.

True, his powers were great, indeed, awe-inspiring beyond any mortal comprehension. But intervention in such a thing was disgusting. They had always stayed apart from the surface world. Those that lived there were disgusting and barbaric. They were wasteful in all things. Under the sea, everything had a purpose and a place. Everything would be absorbed back into the system. There were predators, prey, plants, animals, scavengers, producers, creatures of all kinds working in perfect harmony. The surface world did nothing but waste. They threw everything they didn't want into the sea, as if it was some garbage dump. They wasted food, they wasted resources, they wasted buildings, they wasted ships, they even wasted lives. All of their disputes were pointless and beneath the infinitely wise, powerful, and beautiful King of the Sea. What need had they for the surface world?

But then there was Ariel. She would be the death of them. How could he say no, though? Her position was awkward. Without foreign support, whatever her country was called would be in some sort of trouble. Those delegates from that one country said that such betrayals of previous allegiances ended badly. She had been a fool to join their violent and backwards realm. He only hoped that they wouldn't all pay for it. So much waste, and she had idolized it. She had built a temple of their refuse. She didn't see that they were better than them. Every breed of men other than them that the surfacers had met had been brutally exterminated. Now only two remained, _Homo Sapiens_, and the Mermaids.

The British were pleased. The French had bled men, losing a full 50,000 over the course of the campaign to the actions of guerillas. True, many Spanish were dead, with later estimates guessing anything between 75,000 to 600,000, but Napoleon's army had been weakened. Wellington had been able to win a no-nonsense, no-frills victory, an actual victory, against Napoleon in pitched combat. In all other cases, excuses had been made, and the myth of invulnerability had only diminished. Now it was gone. The French had fled all the way back across the Pyrenees. Denmark and Italy were joining the war. The Sixth Coalition was being born, and its members sharpened their knives. The name of Wellington was on the lips of every schoolboy, and the minds of every workman. Such a great victory at Murcia had been won. Who would've guessed that his legend would grow greater still? Already, it seemed full past bursting. Blenkinsop had named his little locomotive the Murcia. How much longer could Napoleon stand against all of his foes, when even the sea now turned against him?

The Napoleonic Wars, much like the Korean War, are not technically over. All the European powers made peace. But Triton, deep in the brackish depths, never did. The whalers setting out from Norwegian ports keep vigil in silence, waiting for the day the half-men will strike again.

In his house at Atlantica, Triton lies. He is not dreaming. The ghostly leaden halls echo with his silent anger. His people are few now, but their numbers slowly return. Triton is wide awake, and he knows.

For all the sanctions placed on them, the whalers will never stop. They wait, entrenching their lines against the assault they hope will never come. Sailors used to tell stories of mermaids. They do so no longer. Stand firm, and hope that the terror from the deep does not rise.


	59. Icy Seas

The sea was a cruel mistress, and the clipper bobbed and tilted in the waves. Elsa was feeling terrible. Her stomach kept bounding up to her throat and back down again, her head was swimming, the ship swayed and shook beneath her legs. The sea air was rancid and stung with salt. It wasn't like this with anything else. A carriage or horse ride might get bumpy, but it would never make her sick. Boats did though. Boats were awful.

Storm clouds gathered up above. She eyed them warily. If there was one thing that could turn a boat ride from terrible to nightmarish, it was them. The boat was shaking even worse now. Could it have started already? It wasn't raining or thundering. She heard a sharp crack from below. That didn't sound good.

Moments later, balls of fire came flying in. They smashed into the deck. Despite being surrounded by water, a ship is very flammable. It's got all sorts of materials that will burn on it, and many that even take to it with ease. Even today, amateur boaters have been injured as their boats spontaneously combust, the epoxy bursting into flames. The ship caught fire. What had Anna told her? Scan for threats, keep your guard up. There were no ships to be seen. Where could it be coming from?

Another fire bomb hit, this one smashing straight into Anna. Her leg was engulfed in the sticky fire, and she screamed, the sound piercing the air. The fire was spreading over her, was melting her like candle wax. Elsa's eyes widened, and she began to run towards her sister, but the floor gave way, and Elsa was hurled into the air. The ship exploded into a thousand splintered pieces.

Elsa hit the water with a splattering thud, the air being forced out of her lungs by the impact. She tried to breath and failed, water surging into her throat. Her hands shot to her neck, tried to stop the flow of water. She couldn't see clearly, the water was thick with wood shards and air bubbles. It was churning and swirling all around her. This was it. She was going to die like this, drowning. Ice began to crystallize around her. She was going to die and leave her country behind, leave her children behind, leave the plans and reforms unfinished. This was how her parents had died. The world was slowing down around her, fogging up. Elsa didn't want to die. She saw her sister splash down, her leg still burning even in the water. What would happen to Anna's son? Would he really become some masked vigilante? Elsa didn't want to die yet. Blood was trailing from Anna, a murky red cloud in the sea. Vague black shapes were circling. Sharks? How did they get here so quickly? What were those things with them? _Please, don't let me die._

The realization hit her like an icy blast to the face. This was how her parents had died. _This was how her parents had died_. She saw the half-men half-fish circle, alien eyes hiding mysterious thoughts. This was how her parents had died. Swallowed up by the sea without a trace. This was how her parents had died! _Fuck the Ocean_. All her life, she had been blaming some flareup of her powers, when it was them all along! **You don't know that, you don't know anything about these these creatures.** _Fuck the Ocean._ Those things, those things that were hurting her sister. They had killed her parents, and the last thing her mother and father felt about her was fear. She would never hear her father read the Socratic Dialogues or Homer's Odyssey ever again. She would never feel her mother stroking her hair, telling her that it was okay to be unique. They had both been afraid, though, she had seen it. She would never be able to prove them wrong, to show them what a good girl she had become. _Fuck the Ocean._ Fuck the Ocean. _Kill them all._ Kill them all! **You're being too rash Elsa, you're jumping to conclusions.** _Fuck you._ Yeah, fuck you. **It could have been been a regular storm.** _Let it go, Elsa._

She let it go. The difference between clear ice and opaque ice is in the formation. Cloudy ice is full of air bubbles. The water froze up into an orb, filled with air pockets housing her, her sister, and the crew. _Spikes shot out of the surface, impaling shark and merfolk._ The surface of the ocean froze over into a sheet. It felt good to use her powers again. _It felt very, very good to use them without worrying about the consequences._ **She should worry about the consequences! They're not to be employed lightly.** Tendrils began to extend downwards, probing out from the frozen surface. _They grew with murderous speed and intent, salt falling out as the ice froze._ They stretched downwards into the abyss. They had hurt her sister. They would pay dearly for that. Elsa blushed as the power rushed out of her. It had returned in full force after being scorned for ages, the touch of a familiar and sensual friend. Frozen hands crystallized below mermen, catching them in their palms, before the buoyancy suddenly drew the ice up, slamming the hapless seafolk into the icy surface, crushing them into a greasy, bloody paste of organs. **It was a horrific way to die, seeing a wall of ice rushing towards you, knowing that nothing could stop your impending doom. **_It was what they deserved for hurting her family. _

They were cold-blooded, and the ice made them sluggish. Unable to heat themselves, they began to slow down and sleep. Those that did not escape in time would simply sink to the bottom and die, or get caught by the expanding tendrils. They spider-webbed through the water at a lightning speed, snaring countless merfolk. Caught in the ice, and lacking antifreeze in their veins, their cells burst, reducing them to lifeless mush. **It was a horrid way to die, ice slowly glazing over your body, unable to move or react, but feeling every moment as the crystals forming inside and your skin slowly shattered. **_It was cruel, merciless, and beautiful, like a black pearl, a fitting punishment. _As they froze, Elsa heated up, her body breaking into sweats with exertion. She had to push harder, faster, harder, faster, squeeze out every drop of power. It was disgustingly filthy.

Ice spread across the Baltic and North Seas. The power grew, flurrying everywhere, an unstoppable storm. _Fish spontaneously burst into icicles, their only solace being that they were too stupid to comprehend the pain._ **Thousands upon thousands of sea creatures gasped out at once, and then were silenced.** Elsa's attention split again and again, dividing into the infinite amount of frozen fractals forming in the icy tentacles, intricate shapes and geometric patterns being weaved into them. It was stretching her mind to capacity, and she began to scream, over and over again.

The ice reached down onto the ocean floor. Bottom feeders, slow already, were consumed by the oncoming frost. **Innocent fish were frozen and died, completely unaware of what was transpiring around them.** _Geothermal vents were capped by ice spires, massive shimmering citadels that would take the natural heat weeks to melt._ **These were death sentences for the tiny aquatic communities built around these geysers of life.** Elsa doubled over, mouth forming into an o-shape, as the frost continued to pour through her body. She was caught, breathless, as the power shivered through again and again, panting desperately to get some air.

Then it came again, the ice. It pounded against her, yearning to run free. Her tiny chamber, now steamy was far, far too cramped for the sort of energy she was feeling now. It almost called for a song and dance number. Almost. Her hair became messy and unkempt as she succumbed to the unladylike urges to kill. The buildings of Atlantica had water stuck inside their pores. When water freezes, it expands. _The glittering towers and stately manors were torn to shreds and fractured by the sudden expansion of a thousand traitorous pockets of water, an unimaginable display of power._ The denser ones fell to the sea floor and were still, the lighter ones floated to the surface. **In an instant, the storied city was reduced to ruins. All that history, lost forever.**

One final exertion, and a giant spear of ice pierced the ocean, striking straight through the heart of Atlantica. For sea creatures, the ocean is not like water is for humans. It is their sky. **When the salinity shot up due to Elsa's ice magic, it was as if the atmosphere was suddenly transmuting to sarin gas.** _The temperature change wasn't just like getting a cold shower, it was like the world was frosting over into a wintry wonderland. One that happened to include lots of dying._ **With so many creatures dead, and algae deprived of sunlight underneath endlessly thick sheets of ice, those ocean dwellers that did survive the cull would be hard pressed to not starve.** Elsa was now dripping wet, as some of the ice inside had melted due to a lapse in concentration. In minutes, Elsa had created one of the greatest ecological disasters in human history.

It had felt amazing. She hadn't been able to let loose so thoroughly ever since she made that ice palace back on the mountain, and her powers grown a hundredfold since then. _The sea was now a tapestry of ice, covered from Holland to Latvia in snowflake patterns._ The sea was also filled with dead oceanic life of all sorts, microbes already eating away at the decaying bodies. All of Northern Europe would smell of fish and yeast for weeks. **Some fishermen would have a very harsh year.**

Her foes now slain, Elsa turned her attention to the voices in her head. There were two figures sitting on her shoulders. One was Anna, wearing a pickelhaube and military uniform, her hair up, with two little demon horns poking out of her forehead, and an adorable smile plastered all over her face. The other was Anna, wearing a winter dress, her hair in pigtails, a halo hovering above her head, and an adorable smile plastered all over her face. _Hey there sis!_ **Hiya.**

Elsa cocked an eyebrow at herself, as she stood, alone in the ice. With a flick of her wrist, her icy sphere began its slow ascent to the ascent. Normal people were supposed to have an angel and devil version of themselves as a conscience. **Of course, she wasn't a normal person. Twenty-one years of isolation was already enough to strain sanity, and add to that the horrors of war, which often cause self-delusion, self-aggrandizement, denial, flashbacks, and other assorted mental ailments, and it was a wonder the Queen was so sane.** _That's what made her the kind, good-hearted, and lovable sister she was. She was special and flawless._

That didn't address why it was her sister though. **Although that just made sense. She was one of the only people she could actually trust, and there was now a glaring disconnect between the idealized sister figure she had built up over years of isolation, and her sister as she actually was, flaws and all.** _Also, she probably wanted to bang a little. To have the fucks._**She definitely did not want to have the fucks, as that was horrifically deviant, and nauseating to even think about.** _Plus, Queen Elsa was perfectly accepting of her sister's flaws already. Also, what flaws? _**Well, like how Anna isn't so bright, or how she's highly impulsive.**

**There was also the matter of the genocide that just occurred. **_It was pretty awesome. Serves them right. _**After all, there was no hard proof that they were behind the killing of Elsa's parents. **_But one should endeavor to strike so hard that the foe cannot ever retaliate. It was entirely reasonable, given their attack._** Still, the annihilation of a civilization is a tough pill for anyone to swallow. All that culture, lost forever. **_A culture that disdained an entire species living above it, that never ever tried to interact in any level beyond the superficial until now, and even then only through violence? Good riddance. Their charity wasn't needed anyways._ And anyways, the angel on her shoulder was mostly telling Elsa these things because of the Queen's unhealthy psychological need to feel guilty and demonize herself. All of the things she was saying could be true, but dwelling on them wasn't healthy either, it was just feeding an entirely different set of issues, one that actively harmed her relationship with her sister. So either way, she would be giving into destructive desires, but one side had the potential to yield some good. Of course, the angel could refute this, but Anna was never any good at arguments, and that would reveal the Anna-like facade to be the sham it was, as only a piece of Elsa's psyche could outwit Elsa. _It takes a very special and clever type of person to outwit themselves. _**Like a thief able to steal his own pants without noticing.**

Anyways, right or wrong, there was business to take care of. The genocide of the mermaid peoples was already a sunk cost. She had to check on her sister. She melted the ice surrounding Anna, and took a look. She was mostly fine, but her leg had been burnt severely. The cooling had helped a great deal.

"Elsa... is that you?"

"Yeah."

"All I see is white. Are we dead?"

"No."

"Good. It would really suck if heaven hurt this much. I don't think I can stand. How are we going to go anywhere? The boat is gone."

"I just froze over the North and the Baltic Sea. We can walk across the ice."

"I can't walk like this."

"I'll carry you."

So Elsa descended. The power of sisterly love would give her the strength. She tugged at Anna! She didn't move. At all. Elsa's arms tired, and she tried again. Nothing. Elsa started wheezing and coughing from the exertion. She leaned against the ice wall and regained her breath, then tried again. She pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and fell flat on her back. Elsa may or not not have been in bad shape. She decided it was easier to create a snow golem to do it. So the matter was solved.

* * *

**Author** **Notes: **Much like how all instances of ice magic in Frozen can be replaced with "being lesbian", all instances of killing in Ice on the Rhine can be replaced with "fucking", and dead can be replaced with "was fucked silly". For example, in Frozen, Anna climbs higher and higher on giant piles of lesbian, until Elsa is unable to lesbian hard enough to catch her, and she is hit in the face, infecting her mind with lesbian, an act that forces Elsa's parents to lock her away, the lesbian only growing stronger with age. Try replacing killing with fucking in every chapter, it's fun. After all, weapons are dick-shaped, right? That's science or some bullshit like that.


	60. January Snow: Intermission

Elsa marched over the ice, sister in tow, and dreamed of a better time that never was. She dreamed of her youth, of a time when she and her sister could play without incident. The year Elsa was born, over 140 slaves were thrown off of a single ship to save on food. She dreamed of how they would freeze the maid's bum and laugh until their sides ached and their bellies were sore. But as they had laughed, a dam in Sichuan had broken, unleashing a flood that crushed homes and washed away homes. 100,000 would die in the second deadliest landslide event in history. At the same time, nations would be born in splendorous glory. The name of the United States would be chosen for a fledgeling republic, and Arthur Phillip would take ships laden with prisoners went to a strange new land in the bottom of the world. What she dreamed of was not the past, it was innocence. The ability to believe in truly unambiguous happy endings, that good things would happen to good people and that bad things would happen to bad.

She wasn't even sure if she was good. For her, the night was now long and dark. The night was always darkest before the dawn, however. The years after the Napoleonic Wars would bring a relative peace and calm to Europe. Even then, the night was not so dark. Napoleon's economic reforms would save far more than his wars would kill. Only so many men can be mobilized into the army, and for the rest, life goes on. They must work and eat. The economy is not just some abstract thing of stocks and figures, it is the engine that feeds the people and makes well-being from wealth. After all, money is only worth as much as it can buy. Ancient, tangled feudal codes were being rationalized into a new Napoleonic Code, ushering in a new age where the rule of law would be king.

The famines had been long and harsh, and the ravaging of the seas would bring yet another. The people of Russia had starved. The people of Spain had starved. The people of Scandinavia and the Baltic would starve. But the starvation was now at an end. It was a simple population adjustment. Growth outstrips the food supply, excess individuals starve, and then balance is restored. The famines were at last over, and the dark rider slipped away, scale rattling as coins jingled in his pouch.

Elsa was a scholar by nature, and education was one the most precious things in the world to her. It was not until decades later that she would realize the true weight of what Napoleon had done. He was an inspiration. The man was imperfect, as was his empire. But the dream he represented was a dream of liberty, egalite, and fraternity, of the Ancient Regime dying at last. He was the herald of the future. Men dreamed of such things. In dreaming, they would have to understand the message. That meant reading the pamphlets and letters of the revolution. There were many illiterates in Europe, but motivation makes miracles. Napoleon would spread education and build schools, and the people would clamor to them in order to understand the message of the new age. The infant Paris Normal school of the early revolution would be followed by the establishment of an entire secondary school system, and then, most radically, the Imperial University, a proclamation that education was now the responsibility of the state. Napoleon made knowledge the right of every man, when before it was the purview of a few elites. In short, he was a lighthouse guiding the ignorant lost to a new world full of knowledge.

This world of knowledge was needed, as new ideas now grew. With the destruction of the Ancient Regime, a thousand competing ideals had risen to replace it. Nourished by the sunlight of an increasingly educated populace, and watered by the blood of martyrs, these ideas would dominate the century to come. Why?

Because I saw the seal open, and there was a pale horse. And lo, upon him was a terrifying rider, given sword and plague and wild beasts, and the power to take life from the living. And he stared into my eyes, and issued his dread proclamation. God was dead, for the rider had claimed his first victim. I stared into the heavens, confused, and begged for an answer, but there was none. I wept bitterly, and knew no longer what to believe.

And the rider laughed and rode away, to reap of the world's riches, and my footsteps were lost in a January snow.


	61. June of 1840

Under Bismarck, Corona ran like a well-oiled machine. The trains came in on time, the steel mills buzzed at full capacity, the people were happy, healthy, and wealthy, and the military was indomitable. During the long years of her reign of the Coronan Federation, Kaiserin Rapunzel made it policy not to question Bismarck's advice, only to follow it. It seemed like a curious habit, to so thoroughly hand off the running of the nation, but few would ever learn the real reason why. Rapunzel had asked once. She would not make the mistake of asking again.

Bismarck had looked at her, the malign intelligence gleaming in his eyes. He was always plotting and scheming, and one could never be sure how far into the murky future his grand strategies reached. Rapunzel asked several times. At last, Bismarck, having thoroughly weighed the options and considered the likely long term implications of the answer, replied. The implementation of social welfare policy would discourage the common masses from rebelling, allowing the existing conservative order to exist without trouble. Then, the most radical revolutionaries could be safely banished to target countries. There, they would plot their triumphant returns from exile. Unfortunately for them, it would be impossible to get enough support with the level of prosperity Corona had, not even from the underclass, as welfare would stamp that out. A hungry man might kill because either way risks death, but a full and content man will simply carry himself forward through inertia, even if his lot could be better, as he risked losing everything otherwise. However, while in exile, these charismatic revolutionaries would build up cadres of devoted followers, and those followers would likely think of their own countries before Corona. Thus, the social welfare policy would allow for revolutions in other countries. Of course, making mischief without the ability to gain is useless. Obviously Corona had an angle to work. In France, even the new bourgeois monarchy was weak to the Napoleonic Legend. At Napoleon's funeral, they had hesitated, shying away from the body, and trying to hide it. Even in death, Napoleon struck fear into the hearts of even the mightiest kings, and the peasants could sense it. Thus, when revolution arrives at France, Corona can dispatch Napoleon's son. Napoleon II was the son of Elsa I Hohenzollern, and married to Gothel Hohenzollern, Rapunzel's daughter, giving him strong dynastic ties to the ruling house of Corona. He would capture the hearts of the revolutionaries, and transform it into a revolution to restore the French Empire. It effectively guaranteed that France would change from an enemy to an ally, furthering isolating Corona's enemies diplomatically. Furthermore, Corona could silently transfer the Alsace-Lorraine region to itself during the revolution as payment, securing the valuable resources there, and the peasants would be too enamored with their new Emperor to notice. In a single stroke, Corona's diplomatic, economic, and military strength would bloom. But that was not the only fruit revolution would bear.

Italian nationalism would also bloom, and by sponsoring the Italian rebels and promoting its new welfare policies, Corona could appear as a beacon of liberalism and nationalism, despite being mostly conservative. Not only that, the new Italian regime would be sympathetic to Corona and likely form an alliance after receiving such aid. With Italy, France, and Russia as strong Coronan allies, Austria-Germany would be surrounded on every border except for the Ottoman one, and completely contained.

Austria was barreling towards German unification. Nationalistic sentiment had turned away from Corona in the Napoleonic Wars. The Coronans had pressed Germans into service and had invaded, while the Austrians had acted as defenders and liberators. However, if liberalism could be stoked and nationalism brought to a boil, then the Germans would revolt on their own, and try to unite. Austria would have no choice but to accept this crown from the gutter. The Napoleonic generation was now dying off, and soon the youth would forget Corona's crimes. That meant Corona would become a real threat in the leadership of Germany. If they refused the revolutionaries' crown, sentiment would turn against them, and they would lose their only chance. If they accepted it, it would come with liberal provisos and the implicit statement that the people decided their ruler. Absorbing such a large territory with new constitutional restraints would undoubtedly affect their other territories, and the entire Hapsburg empire would be forced into a more constitutional arrangement. Thus, it would weaken their monarchy. Revolution would turn a painless German unification into one where Austria had to choose between German leadership and a weak monarchy with significant power loss. Bismarck had successfully poisoned the apple.

But that was not all. Austria-Germany would be a vastly stronger power, at least on paper, and it would justify Corona's new French alliance, as that would help maintain the balance of power. Not only that, but many north German states were still loyal to Corona. They had been undergoing a slow and steady centralization of power, and the German unification would give Corona the excuse it needed to centralize and unite those loyal north German states without appearing to be tyrannical. The old royal families would remain as figureheads, and nothing more. All power would be delivered to Rapunzel's hands. Thus, Corona would greatly expand its territory as well. The plan could run to completion in less than 10 years.

The Revolutions of 1848 were one of many masterstrokes devised by Bismarck, and under his leadership, Corona would grow from an already strong Great Power position, to one that was nearly unassailable, with alliances to France, Italy, the United States, and Russia, a strong industrial economy, military technology more advanced than any of its rivals, and a content population at home.

But Rapunzel saw the disinheriting of her cousin. She had to confess.

* * *

"And... ummmm... that's pretty much the plan," said Rapunzel, her hands wringing each other nervously.

"That's fine," replied Queen Elsa.

"I don't mean to hurt you, I swear, I... huh?"

"I said that's fine."

"I don't understand."

"Every day I have to make tough decisions. No matter what I do, it will hurt someone, no exceptions. There's simply too much power in my hands. Everything I do, I do having considered the consequences first. But I don't see the people I saved from suffering. I see the homeless on the streets, the starving in their slums, orphans going unloved. That's what I sleep with every night. I hurt those people. I'm tired, Punzie. I was already a platinum blonde, so not many people noticed when my hair went white. One of the blessings of ice magic, I guess."

"Elsa, don't say that."

"Because of you, my daughter will never know how it feels to sign a death warrant. She won't ever have to build a factory knowing that it will obsolete an entire community, and cause them to starve. She won't be the one deciding to defile Arendelle's natural beauty with smokestacks and railroads. She won't ever be the one calling for blood, crying out that the time has come to beat plowshares to swords. She won't ever have to suppress a revolutionary movement, knowing that they only dreamed of freedom, and wishing that their hopes were more realistic and pragmatic. Arendelle is more prosperous, populous, and secure than it's ever been in history, and I still feel empty. I can't change that either, because my happiness isn't worth the suffering of my people. She won't make that tradeoff. She'll be free. She can just be the figurehead and mother of the people. A sign of hope and a symbol to rally around. She'll be able to walk the palace halls without wondering how much blood has been shed for them. She'll be able to follow her dreams like I never could. I had to be the Queen. I had to rule the country. She doesn't. She can be the woman she dreams of being. I'm grateful, cousin. From the bottom of my heart, I truly am."

And Elsa hugged her cousin, and began to cry.


	62. June of 1812

Europe had been calm since January. It was an impromptu and unofficial ceasefire, as nations attempted to rebuild their armies. Napoleon vowed to make an army just as strong as the one that had invaded Russia, but this was an impossible task. Still, the one assembled was mighty fine. The core was 90,000 veterans of the Russian campaign. In addition, the remaining loyal Italian territories supplied another 15,000, and Corona replenished and rearmed 50,000 men. With the 65,000 that had previously been reserves who had fought in the Peninsular campaign, and 10,000 from the north German states, this came to a total of 230,000 men. Not nearly as numerous as the Grande Armee, but battle hardened. It had come at a heavy cost. An entire generation of young Frenchmen now fertilized the fields of Europe. It was a manpower crisis that would devastate France for the next few decades.

The Sixth Coalition was now preparing an invasion in earnest. Spain had suffered much, but it was still defiant, and together with Portugal was fielding an army of 55,000 stout Iberian men. They and 75,000 British troops would invade from the west, pushing into southern France. Another 30,000 men would be joining them from Italy. The western forces totaled 160,000.

Meanwhile, the Republic of Constantinople had degenerated into a blood orgy, as the Sultan had predicted. He and his vizier's loyal retinue stormed the city and were proclaimed as liberators. Another 70,000 Ottoman soldiers were raised, to join 110,000 Austrians in a march into southern Germany. Although Napoleon could outnumber either of the forces individually, he would be leaving the other to wreak havoc. If he split his forces up, however, he sacrificed numerical superiority. The eastern forces totaled 180,000. The Sixth Coalition had 340,000 men to Napoleon's 230,000. A not insurmountable challenge, but Napoleon was tiring. His tactical skills were fading with endless exertion, and more and more, he turned to the use of brute force.

The Sixth Coalition planned to fight their way through Germany, linking up just north of the Alps. They would then proceed north and invade Saxony, then siege Corona before proceeding through the Low Countries to Paris.

Napoleon's plan was to deploy 140,000 men to meet the western army, and 90,000 to harry the advance of the eastern one as they pushed through Austria. If the western army could be defeated decisively, then Napoleon could double back and meet up with the delaying force and then smash the eastern front. The eastern force would retreat along the Moldau, loot and burning as it fled. It would not present itself as a solid force, instead it was taking the lessons of Russia and Spain, and distributing itself across the mountainous terrain of Austria. The enemy would be hard-pressed to catch its foe in the mountains, as its marching speed would not be able to match the smaller units, assuming they could stay coordinated and not get snared. Ideally, the enemy force would be whittled away through attrition. It was a risky maneuver at best, but Napoleon was running out of options. If the enemy linked together, all was lost. Napoleon's own skills had grown weaker, while the Coalition's generals improved with each passing year.

The short peace had been nothing more than a calm before one last storm. A Battle of the Nations now approached.

* * *

**Author Notes:** Here, have some bonus content.

(pastebin website)(slash)WKisp3yk

Inside said pastebin is a link to an imgur album.

It's an album of my personal maps for this fic. Contains spoilers. Maps are of 1810, 1820, 1855, 1865, 1910, 1935, 1950, and the modern day. These maps are very, very, very rough, and are unlikely to match up with geographic features that actually make up Europe's squiggly borders, but it should be enough to give the general idea of what's going on, and the territorial changes. Again, this is bonus content. Peruse at your own peril.


	63. Juniper Berries

History is composed of sources. Some sources are detailed. Others are not. Some are obscure, and meaning must be teased out of them in sultry ritual. Others are very clear-cut and straightforward, with no interpretation required, except for determining their significance. Some recollections are more reliable than others. There are memoirs layered with embellishments and fanciful anecdotes. Others are dry and fact-based. Even the span of a few months has the ability to distort and warp memory, let alone biographies written years after the fact. Source after source after source is bound together and sewn into the tapestry of history, and if it frays at times, one would do well to remember how much weaving the task took in the first place. The past is not to be taken for granted.

One of those sources is the war journal of Anna Hohenzollern. In stark contrast to what we know of her other writings, it is simple, plain, and unadorned. The handwriting is messy, but straightforward, and it comments mostly on military matters. It is just one of many sources. What is curious, however, is the period of time between the 18th and 21st of November, 1812.

The Bohemian campaign had been one of evasion. Cavalry elements had skirmished with the enemy, while the infantry marched through the mountains and sniped at opportune moments. Trails were frosted over or blocked with ice walls, and the job of path-finding had been made as difficult as possible. Signs and landmarks were systematically destroyed. Natural features of the geography that could not be destroyed were obscured as much as possible. Harvests were frozen over and ruined, to deny as much to the enemy as possible. Some of the only food available to the Austrians came from the berries of trees. Storms were sent upon them, to make it impossible to move forward. In short, it took the Austrians six months to march through their own territory. It was oftentimes impossible to avoid Elsa's wrath in the mountains. The plains offered the only solace.

One key part of the strategy was the ice crossing. While regular armies would have to build bridges or rafts, the French could simply march through as normal. Over the course of the campaign, the French army averaged 1.6 river crossings a day. Bridges were burnt down behind them, and local areas deforested, to ensure that the enemy could not cross easily. If the bridges were stone, picks and shovels were used. Gunpowder was too loud, unwieldy, and required too technical a hand. Hand labor was cheap and relatively simple. Roads were buried in snow and covered in black ice, but the French didn't need roads. It was true that the French were not immune to ice, and a block on the path designed for an Austrian would work just as well on a Frenchman. But the French were not using roads much of the time. To know the answer, listen to Ma Vlast, one of the great nationalist suites of music of the 19th century.

The Vltava, or Moldau, was their road. The river was frozen over as they marched, and the magic was released to thaw the river as they left.

Between the 18th and 21st of November, their plan of evasion failed. The Austrians had managed to maneuver into an encircling position, and descended upon the French. What followed was the Battle of the Moldau, alternatively known as the Rattenkrieg. In an attempt to separate the French from the Austrians, Elsa created great walls and mazes of ice around the battlefield, and storms swept again and again over the melee.

It was a great cacophony, with the flurrying of blades and the stench of burning powder. The walls were everywhere. The walls watched you. Run in any direction, and there were the walls. But the walls were not safety. Pause, and the walls might shatter like the crystal they were, as others burst through them in their furious dueling. Pause, and they melt around you, as your body dissolves in the grip of Greek Fire, a fire coming through the walls. There was no place for safety, for there was nowhere with vision. How could anyone feel safe when blind corners lurked only a few feet away? What fresh hells lay behind those twists and turns? There was no space to reload, for, if while fumbling with your gun you are ambushed, there would be no way to switch to melee and defend yourself fast enough. It was a return to all the worst excesses of medieval combat, sans protective armor. The severing of limbs and the chopping of flesh, as the men scurried around the little maze. There was no place to rest, for every corner hid the unknown. There was no security in such a small place. There was not even air, for the ice storms choked out breath and filled the lungs with deathly chill. There was only the hope that the scurrying might bring escape, that the walls might come crumbling down.

It was the life of a rat to struggle to eke out survival in a world created by someone you could not and would not ever understand. To throw yourself into the fray over and over, just for a chance at life. To not see what lay in the future, or even the past, lost in a sea of blind walls, empty corridors, and silent ends.

The battle was no great success. It was no miracle of the House of Brandenburg, as the sparing of Frederick the Great after Kunersdorf and the return of Rapunzel had been called. 25,000 French casualties were matched with only 10,000 Austrian ones, and the French could not spare their lives as easily as the Austrians could. But the mazes, walls, and storms had worked and given the French enough distance to retreat. They would escape to fight again. If half of Napoleon's army had been captured in those three days, then the following German campaign would not even have had a glimmer of hope. As it stood, things were already very bleak. Although the Austrians had been delayed a great deal, and 40,000 of them would perish of starvation over those months, they had manpower to spare. The Kaiserliche was the only force that could match the Grande Armee at its height in size, and, unlike Napoleon's army, it had not been depleted by long years of war. When the Austrians had abandoned the continent rather than surrender, the men had lain in wait. Now, the time had come. Austria was free, truly free, with the forces of the Emperor retaking the country. 50,000 gone, but another 235,000 brought into active service. Come spring 1813, the Austrian army would pour into Germany with 395,000 men.


	64. Julius Alone

It was true that Napoleon's genius had slightly diminished. But it was equally true, and perhaps far more important, that his officer corps had been devastated ever since Russia. He needed them. No battle plan survives contact with the enemy, and as such, the plan must be adjusted mid-combat. That took a mind capable of completely grasping the plan, understanding the strengths and weaknesses, and reacting to events in a way that continues to maximize the plan's strengths. It took initiative, resolve, and skill. They were also the voices in Napoleon's ear reminding him that he was not invincible. They could revise plans before they were set in action. Each corps commander was like the leader of a tiny army. He had lost too many. Anna Hohenzollern, who had only 4 years experience, was one of his most senior marshals. It was a sad state of affairs. A brigadier is not a corps commander. The brigadier is still primarily focused with the execution of the plan. The corps commander decides the plan. Take Gettysburg. Lee's corps commanders had failed at Gettysburg, and the corps had not taken initiative and pressed when the time was right, and shied away when it was not, and the corps commanders did not evaluate the situation as generals in their own right. Such things cost battles, and turned crushing victories into minor ones. Even a great general like Napoleon could not face the world alone. Yet now, the fate of the army rested solely upon his genius.

Wellington crossed the Saison river. Napoleon had now met the enemy, and he was his. Napoleon's forces were split between Biderin and Sauveterre-de-Bearn. Wellington now had a Morton's fork facing him. Advance to cross the second river, the Gave d'Oloron, and Napoleon would flank from Biderin. Retreat east, and the enemy would simply strike from the rear. Return across the river, and the enemy would strike while the crossing was prepared. Attack Biderin, and the forces at Sauveterre-de-Bearn would strike from behind.

Wellington attempted to break the main force at Sauveterre-de-Bearn. He had local superiority, and if he could break the French, he could march across the bridge and take their old position and use that terrain advantage to rout the other French force as they chased.

French courage was now pitted and British and Spanish courage.

French courage won. The Coalition force broke while storming the bridge, the artillery and massed fire littering the crossing with bodies. The flanking force at Biderin then arrived and slammed into their flank. They now turned and run. It was the time to turn the victory into a decisive one. Dreams of triumph against the world now flashed through Napoleon's mind, and he gave chase. Napoleon had always used his cavalry well. Cavalry was the coin that purchased great victories. Cavalry ran the fleeing enemy down and captured their forces. The army he had now, though, was not the army he thought he had, or the army he had in his heyday. A hussar was a blackguard if he lived past thirty. Anna, Princess of Arendelle, was only 29, and already had an impressive medley of injuries, though her most immediately recognizable one was yet to come. His cavalry was not the cavalry he used to have. His cavalry had died in the burning sands of Egypt for him. They had died in the olive groves of Italy for him. They had died in the forests of Germany for him. They had died in the wasting muds and hell-frozen earth of Russia for him. They had died in the plains of Iberia for him. Now he was alone with green boys, with more valor than sense, and no experience to temper their bravado. The cavalry were unable to carry the day at the Battle of Sauveterre-de-Bearn, and the Coalition retreated back to the Saison. There were 10,000 French casualties to 35,000 Coalition ones.

The French impacted, and again French courage was tested. This time, it failed. The Coalition men were now backed up against the river, and had to fight or drown. They chose to fight. Again and again, the French attacked, but the Coalition would not give. Finally, the French broke and ran. The Coalition had paid a heavy blood toll, but the bridge was now theirs to cross. Another 25,000 Coalition casualties matched another 12,500 French ones, but the Coalition had the manpower to spare, and Napoleon had not won the decisive victory he needed.

Napoleon's cavalry was no longer the force it used to be. His corps commanders could no longer aid him. Napoleon was alone. If a victory was won, he could not rely on his cavalry to enhance it anymore. It was a lesson he would take to heart at Leipzig. He had the momentum and the focus, but no longer the mass to drive his victories to greatness.

Now came the panic. Napoleon hurried back through France, then to Germany, recruiting everyone he could get his hands on. Boys of 14 and 15 were forced to take up arms and join in one last great patriotic struggle. Another 80,000 would join his army, but they were still grievously outnumbered, and the enemy advance continued. The winter was setting in, and the last glimmers of hope were fading.


	65. Killing Fields: Intermission

An entire generation had been born in war. It is difficult to even comprehend the reality of it. It was a war fought with all the intensity of total war, over all the duration of the more limited wars of today, and then some. The wars began in 1792. It was now the dawning of 1813. Someone born on the dawn on the Revolutionary Wars would now be an adult ready to die in the Napoleonic Wars. An entire generation had been consumed by the war, and yet the war kept going. The war raised an entire new generation to die. The revolution had been born when Anna was five. The war was still going over twenty years later, and now Anna was an important general in it. There were now men fighting in the war that had literally never known peace. When they were playing their schoolyard games, the war was raging. When they grew to adulthood, the war was still raging, and now it called to them.

Fields had been foraged continuously for twenty years. Cities had been burnt, rebuilt, and burnt again for twenty years. Boots had trampled paths underfoot for twenty years. The hills and valleys had rung with gunfire for twenty years. The continent of Europe was war ravaged. If the First World War had lost a generation, than this one had lost more. It was a conflict that claimed the lives of millions upon millions when the population of the entire world was only one billion people. Summing up both the Revolutionary and the Napoleonic phase, almost ten million people had died, with many of those deaths being ordinary civilians. Twice as long as the US invasion of Afghanistan. Three times as long as Iraq. A quarter more than Vietnam. There was no end to it, and for many, no beginning either. It was the way of the world. Peace was a far more abnormal state. Nor was it the sort of war that could be ignored most of the time. It blazed across the continent, it conscripted vast legions of men. It ground away at manpower, and manpower is just a nicer way of saying the brothers, sons, and fathers of families. War had come to every continent on Earth save Australia.

Who knew what would come about once the war was over? By this point, peace seemed almost unthinkable. War was the way of mankind.

And yet, the war was nearly at an end.


	66. Konigreich

**Author Notes: **Alright, I now feel the need to add this. This chapter is weird. It's really fucking weird. You can skip it and not miss much, and don't be afraid to if weird isn't your thing. I'd rather you skip a tiny piece of the story over stop reading. Disclaimer complete.

* * *

I had never liked the fat bastard anyways.

Heaven almighty, what was there to like? Those glaring, lopsided, misshapen eyes crammed into that cueball of a head. They were always judging and probing you. Every man had his number and his price, but certainly, there was no need to be so transparent about it. That was just discourteous. If your price wasn't right, if you couldn't cough up what he needed, then you weren't getting a moment's attention from him. He would turn back and polish his counter, or polish the glasses, or polish the taps, or polish the floor. He was polishing, always polishing. The tavern always had to look in tip top condition. If he did anything else, hell if I knew. Seemed like he lived his whole life there.

I had a cabin up in the mountains. It was nice, clean, and isolated. The air was thin there, but it was the only place I could really breath. Everywhere else, the din of other mens' thoughts drowns out your own. Solitude and reflection, that is what makes a man. Everyone ought to find such a peace in nature. It was a hopelessly romantic dream. The world was shrinking, and man was growing. The wild places were being stolen away. But still, I selfishly hoarded mine. In such a place, my creaturely character could express itself to the fullest. Out in the wilds, where all are animals, one realizes just how intertwined man is with nature. I was but an animal, but was there something so wrong with that? It was a purer way to live. When the snowmelt meets the world, that was where I drank. Where the wild things pranced, that was where I hunted. Oh, pure atavism. The shelter of a sheltered man at the twilight of the world.

That was where I was, then, when I saw them. An army train, miles long, was marching into town. I gazed at that golden, halcyon string, and was in awe. Banners of the sun and republic fluttered behind them, the vain posturing of a truly pompous and splendorous chimera overflowing with loveliness. What was I before such a beast, and surely this was a beast. What was I? I, carrying a satchel of goods, creature comforts for a simple creature such as myself. The snake wormed its into the egg, and I saw, in sublime glory, the devouring. The city, the seed of corruption, it was burning! Oh, for a fiddle I would've traded the pearls of the world, just so I could sing a dirge as old Nero did! Then came the screaming, such screaming! Like the wailing of the rabbit as the jaws snapped shut around it. High-pitched, and in great multitudes it came. The city, it had been rearranged.

Then came the silver, in quantities not matched by even the greatest glories of Cyrus. Sprouting came the trees, the ice spears a flurrying from that good earth. The roads, they were overgrown with the vines and fruits of frost! Oh, weep, Demeter, and know that you are outmatched! The frost, spiraling into gracious pattern, weaving across the countryside in walls and threads. It was enough to give Arachne envious blush. The embroidery was not to be matched by even a thousand slave children in the Dragon Emperor's seductive caverns, and how would Cathay gnash and howl to be outmatched so!

At last, a storm came, white and beautiful. It formed into a great column over the city, and was held on a high note, as the very cup of trembling. The release came, and that pillar of salt dissolved into wisps, and all was still once more.

I stowed away my satchel, and returned to town.

There was the beast, a burnt out carcass, ribs hanging in the quiet night. The fat man, he was beating the earth, and he was beating his chest. His voice was hoarse and thick, and over and over he cursed "the Polish bitch, the Polish bitch, why has she done this to me?". He raised his hands again, and I saw the knuckles, raw and bloody. Glimmer his eyes did, and he prostrated himself. In kneeling agony, he began to shovel handfuls of ash into his greedy mouth, never stopping to chew or swallow. The raw scream escaped me, and I buried my face in shame for it. I left this city of mirrors and returned to my home, never pausing to see my own reflection.

At home, I rested sweetly, and drank of the pure clean mountain springs. Come dawn, however, the whore called me again, and I returned to its tender womb. Musket and shovel in hand, I descended the path. The man had frozen to death in the night, and I gazed onto his stony form. I grabbed the shovel, and tore my shirt off me, then ripped it to shreds. My work was here. I smashed the body. I chopped, I hacked, I butchered. Each bit of meat, I bashed apart. I severed the spine, crushed the vertebrae. The skull, I slammed into the ground over and over, until it broke and the sticky sap ran out. The larger eye, it would not yield. A sapphire jewel, it was impervious to even my harshest blows. This, I pocketed, a keepsake of the times. I looked upon my work, and saw that it was good. I burned it. The man was reduced to ashes.

I gathered up the ashes as best I could. Stinging tears were running down my cheeks, hot and salty. They mixed into the remains of the dead man. I began to cast fistfuls of the ash into the air, watching as the little things showered down and fell into the ashes of the tavern. My own chest grew mottled and discolored, stained gray with the last bits of a fat bastard. Then, the ashes were gone, lost among the remains of the tavern.

All those ashes would be swept away by the Austrian wind, just as I would be. Kaiserliche called.


	67. Kaiserliche

Franz was a nice man. He was always respectful to his elders, and kind to children. His surname was not important, since he was not important.

He kept his uniform clean, and his shoes polished. He marched without grumbling, and ate without complaint. He was a patriot, convinced of the nobleness of the cause. He loved the countryside. He had hobbies. He enjoyed woodworking, a bit of sewing, and would occasionally hike. Franz loved his brothers and his sisters. He had three brothers and two sisters. Franz gave to the poor, and did not envy the rich. Franz was a kind-hearted young man. There were hundreds of thousands of Franzs in the Austrian army, with slight variations among them. Franz was a private, one of many, less than even an afterthought in the historical record. When the call came, he was kissed by his grandmother, hugged his mother, saluted his father, reassured his siblings, and then was off. Wholesome young men were the sinews of war.

His helmet was a Tschako. There were hundreds of thousands of Tschakos just like it, and it could be easily replaced. It was a standard hat. It was kept to regulation. His uniform was of the German, and not the Hungarian style, as was expected. He had a brown cowhide pack, and a wooden water canteen. The greatcoat would normally be hung on the pack, but southern Germany had frozen over, so Franz was wearing the greatcoat. It was warm and snuggly.

He followed the battalionsfahne, whether it led him to death or not. The colors were more important than he. He fought for the honor of Austria, and he would not shame his loving Fatherland.

Far off, a bullet was being cast. The lead poured into the mold, and it cooled. Satisfied with the quality, it was dumped unceremoniously with thousands of its kind, and boxed up. From there, it would proceed to a supply depot, be lost amongst swirling storms of paperwork, be transferred to a caravan, be bumped and jumbled along the harsh dirt paths, see the sunlight once more, be handed out to the appropriate hand, stored once more, but in a more personal manner, hear the hewing and crying of combat, be pulled out of its safe bed, jammed down Franz's musket with some powder, and then fly.

Franz was not special. The bullet was not special. But the exact intersection of everything, this set of coincidences, was special. That bullet now had a very special name on it, and a very special time on it.

The Battle of Waterloo.

Marshal Anna Hohenzollern, 'Demon of the North'.

It had not yet arrived. For now, Franz hacked diligently away at the ice blocking the German roads with his ax. The march northwards could not be stopped.


	68. Kameraden

"Here's to an end to soup, and good riddance!" shouted the soldier.

"I like soup," replied his comrade.

"Well, Hansel, I used to like soup too. Then we drank soup for more than a year, and I decided that soup was awful."

"I can't believe I used to like walking!" said a third.

"You don't like walking anymore?" asked a fourth.

"You still do?"

"It builds leg strength."

"You're full of shit."

A man sauntered into the clearing, rags wrapped around his hands. The Tschako he was wearing had a bit more gold weave to it than the others. He walked up to the campfire. He warmed his hands against the fire for a moment, then raised his head.

"Just finished talking to the cavalry scouts. Thaw soon, soldiers!"

His words were met by a raucous cheer, and the men continued their eating and drinking.

"I'll never take a visit to Saxony for granted ever again!"

"Hear, hear!"

"You know they've got a woman general, right?"

"Everyone knows that, you damned idiot."

"You know she fucks her sister, right?"

"Oh yeah, that's the part of the legend of the Demon you have to keep in mind, the fucking. Not the stabbing, or the shooting. Your head, it's in a good place."

"Well, can't you imagine it? Those soft, graceful hands stroking the arch of the back, coaxing those little wanting screams out? The sweet kisses on the nape of the neck, as they stroke each others' smooth, supple skin? The little massages and squeezes they give as they giggle and toss about, before finally falling asleep, eyes locked in loving embrace? Ah, such a fragrant and forbidden love!"

"And then you show up, and present the bratwurst, yes?"

"Of course! A righteous Hungarian man to lead them away from their sinful ways! I will make my Magyar ancestors proud. They came, they saw, they conquered... the native girls as much as the native warriors. Heh."

"Ridiculous, this one. Ought to throw him off a cliff one day."

"I'd like to see you try. My saber is mightier than any gun."

"I bet they'll break and run as soon as they see us."

"Sure they will, they're only fighting out of fear."

"Exactly. They'll be more scared of us than they are of the Bitch Queen."  
"Perhaps they'll even depose her."

"Ahh, but she only has daughters. There must always be a Bitch Queen."

"True, true."

One of the soldiers drew himself up proudly, and brought his hand to stroke his chin.

"You know, I saw Blucher once."

"Big deal, and I've seen Napoleon."

"I really did see Blucher though."

"And I really saw Napoleon. He was a blue speck up on the hill."

"No, I mean Blucher led a charge that ran down my unit."

"So how'd you live then, eh?"

"Well, he was charging right at us. The man seemed older than even the mountains. His face was weathered like granite, and there was a blazing fire in his eyes. I bet you could kill everyone around him, and he still wouldn't break. The way he steered his horse... well, it was something else. Like they were one unit, one big ball of death. All the Coronans were looking at him too, not us. It was eerie. Like he was controlling all of their heads, like his will was the will of the whole army. Even when they were firing on us, they were looking at him. It was like they wouldn't break unless he did, and he would never break. A shell went over me, and I felt the white heat burning at my back before I blacked out. A few hours later, I woke up in a field of bodies, my arm broken. Ended up wandering back to our camps eventually."

The men had paused, ceasing their banter. Finally, another offered a story.

"I was walking forward once. We were in a row, and my best friend was next to me. Then, boom. An ice spike right through him. His guts were wrapped around it like ornaments on a Christmas tree. His mouth was stuck, frozen in a scream. I didn't want to look any more, so I didn't. We kept marching."

"...Yeah. This one is for old friends. May we meet them all again in God's loving arms."

The soldier began to pour the alcohol into the ground, but a hand stopped him.

"Officer is here. Wouldn't want to waste anything. We might need it someday. Pour it into the pot."

So they poured the drink into the soup, and they stirred. The dozens of battles through the years, the ones with only tens of thousands of men on each side, with corps bumping into each other on accident, or minor disputes, these were forgotten, mostly, by history. Military historians would look upon them, but only as footnotes to those great decisive battles of the wars. Even in this recounting, they were lost. But these men, they remembered. So they looked into the soup, and they saw their lost friends again.

"To old friends, then."

"Amen."

"We'll see them again."

"For the survivors... we pour out another after this battle."

"We'll all live."

"You know we won't. Make the promise."

"Yes, we shall."

"Into Saxony then."

"Yes, into Saxony. Let's get stuck in, boys."


	69. Killing an Empire

Napoleon had fought several battles going up France and through Germany, but none had been decisive. Now, with his men in Saxony, he knew there was no more ground to give. Beyond Saxony was Corona. The battle was forced for political reasons as much as it was for military ones. If Leipzig was lost, then the Austrians would push straight into Corona, and Napoleon would be fighting a war against all of Europe without allies. It was decided to make a stand. The 20th of October would be known as the first day of the Battle of Leipzig, also known as the Battle of the Nations. It was the largest battle continental Europe had ever seen, and would remain the largest for almost one hundred years.

Leipzig was a supremely defensible position, interlaced heavily with rivers. The bridges in the area had all been destroyed beforehand, save the ones Napoleon intended to use in case of retreat. The enemy would have to march around a great distance to adjust their angle of attack. Meanwhile, Napoleon's forces could make the river crossings easily, as they were in the spoke of a great wheel of rivers. This allowed a comparatively small force to defend the rear and the flanks of Napoleon's army. Napoleon himself could deploy the bulk of his forces between the Pleisse and Parthe, allowing to launch an offensive with what was likely to be local superiority in numbers, even if he was actually gravely outnumbered. Field Marshal Blucher was supreme commander of Corona's military, and was tasked with holding the western flank. He had 40,000 men split evenly between cavalry and infantry, and all equipped for mobility. Ney and Murat were both given a corps, and together had 20,000 men to hold the village of Mockern, which dominated the north. 10,000 men were held in reserve and commanded by Poniatowski, an up and coming Coronan general. Tiny bumps of ice were set up, acting as speedbumps for charging enemy forces, giving more time to act with fire and artillery. If they stopped to burn the ice, they would deny ground to themselves and still give the French time. Walls were set up. These walls were not meant to aid in the battle, as they would hamper the action of artillery. Instead, they served as signals to where the enemy had penetrated. Forces could be shifted appropriately. Napoleon and Rapunzel had both sent out orders for heavy conscription efforts, and despite all his losses, Napoleon was still able to deploy 240,000 men to the main front, with MacDonald and Bertrand commanding the flanks on the main offensive. Still, veterans had been redistributed and certain battalions combined to give an even spread of experience, and Napoleon had certain units earmarked and deployed in a manner to minimize the damage from early routs. With his forces deployed, Napoleon readied himself to see the enemy response, and prepared his attack. In total, Napoleon had brought 310,000 men to the battle.

Napoleon's counterpart for this battle was the Count of Schwarzenburg. He had drawn up a plan in which the main group of forces would attack Napoleon head-on, advancing along the Pleisse. The rest would attempt to break through on the western flank and crush Blucher, then move in through Leipzig and strike Napoleon from behind. Other coalition leaders heavily objected to this plan, but the Austrians refused to yield. Austria was providing, by far, the bulk of the forces at Leipzig, and it could overrule any grumbling. 70,000 men had completed the journey from the west, and 370,000 Austrians had arrived from the south. 120,000 men were assigned to break the west, and 320,000 to the main front. In total, the Coalition had brought 440,000 men to the battle. An unprecedented 750,000 were participating.

The first strikes were to the west and south. In the west, Blucher was facing 120,000 men. He had three prepared positions to fall back to. The first was beyond Lindenau, the second behind Lindenau, and the third along the rivers surrounding Leipzig. Battle began at the first line, with 80,000 Coalition men assaulting the position. After an hour of harsh fighting, Blucher gave the order to fall back to the second line before they were overrun. Even that, however, began to fall underneath a vigorous struggle. When two flanking forces of 20,000 Austrians each came from surrounding forces, the Coronans began to panic and break. The battle would have been lost, then, if not for Blucher. He stood firm on the line, despite everyone around him running. He was plainly visible to both friend and foe, and shots whizzed by his passive, wrought-iron face. One by one, the fleeing Coronans looked back at him. It was a sight to put them all to shame. Here they were, young, hearty men fleeing from the field of battle, while their general, whose life was far more valuable, and who was already wearied and weakened by the ravages of age, stood firm and unyielding. Nothing, it seemed, could make Blucher waver. The Coronans reformed their lines and held. Still, the attack was witheringly strong in power. However, by noon, it had become clear that no attacks were coming on the other flanks. Murat and Poniatowski both redeployed to the western flank, and with reinforcements coming in, Blucher made a savage counter-attack and broke the Austrian morale. 20,000 of them were killed, and 10,000 captured, the rest sent fleeing.

Napoleon dealt with the main flank. The enemy came marching along the river, but the artillery fire was dreadful indeed. Furthermore, their numbers were not as effective as they seemed. Part of the infantry and artillery had to be given special fire munitions to ward away enemy ice deployment, weakening their effectiveness against enemy infantry. Much like how the fences broke Pickett's charge, the icy speed-bumps continually sapped momentum from the Austrian advance. Artillery rained down upon the Austrians. Shots whistled past and through them. Their numbers served to inconvenience them. With so many men packed onto one field, it gave the French artillery a very large and welcoming target. Still, the sheer mass of the advance threatened to break the French. Indeed, a case can be made that it could have. Napoleon was expecting to hold local superiority, but instead the Austrians outnumbered him there. He had advanced early on, in an attempt to carry out his initial plan of offense. This had only overextended his forces and reduced the distance between him and the Austrians. Unfortunately, there was no way he could successfully attack a force so much larger. Napoleon's lines began to fail, when his deliverance arrived. At roughly 3:30, a division of cuirassiers smashed into the Austrian flank, followed by the rest of the force defending the western flank. Blucher himself was leading the charge, and the flanking maneuver soon rolled right down the enemy line. The Austrians broke and fled. Although the larger groups could melt their way through icy obstacles, smaller groups could not, and they were either killed or captured. Napoleon had held the field, as fighting died down on the first day.

The second day began with another unsuccessful assault. The Austrians had expected the French to stop extending themselves and fall back, and they did. But a contingent of Polish men had volunteered to remain in Wachau. As the Austrians passed by, the Polish sprung from their hiding spots and attacked from the rear. Then they tied up new advancing waves and waves turning back in brutal street-to-street combat, and as they were dying, burned down the village. By noon, Coalition commanders had decided the plan was not working. Schwarzenburg drew up a new plan, in which the Coalition would encircle the town of Leibniz and attack on all sides. This way, Napoleon would be spread thin, and a break anywhere could win the battle.

The second day of fighting was primarily in the villages of Mockern to the north, and Libertwolkwitz in the south.

Mockern was surrounded by swampy land, ringed with a series of walls from the lowest in the outside to the innermost manor walls, and now covered with even more artificial ice defenses. French gun positions and infantry lines covered every approach with fire. Infantry assaulted the positions again and again, but could do nothing in the face of French fire. Bodies sank into the ghastly swamp. At one point, with the battle well balanced and victory in reach, the Austrians sent in a cavalry charge. Unfortunately, the ground had been disturbed with ice in a way as to be slippery, rough, and uneven all at once, and the horses were unable to properly maneuver or strike. The French fire claimed them as well. With the failing of the assaults, both sides simply shot their artillery at each other well into the night. Fortress Mockern would not fall.

A grand battery had been formed in Libertwolkwitz, and it had dealt much of the damage that had ravaged the Austrian army over the last two days. It was now decided to seize the village. First, they sent ahead assault forces. However, the battery was in far too strong of a position, and the attacks failed. Then Napoleon replied by sending Blucher and Murat out to attack the enemy lines, but the Austrians were too great in number, and their cavalry was lighter and able to harass the French attackers. The French retreated back to the village. The Austrians then attempted to clear out the French position using fire weapons. The nerve of the French gunners was tougher than steel, though, and Napoleon personally arrived to rally the men. Staying low and to the ground, and rearranging cannon as appropriate, they kept the batteries sounding. Napoleon was not the only one with an elite guard. The Austrians now fielded their grenadiers. Forming into infantry squares, the grenadiers stormed the village. All the cannon fire and gunshots did not dampen their will, even when comrades began to fall, and the guard forced the French to retreat. The village was theirs, but the elite Austrian grenadiers were now spent. They would need time to recover.

A few skirmishes near Lindenau rounded out the day. As dusk fell, Napoleon sent an envoy offering to negotiate peace and end the war. The Coalition refused. Victory could still be theirs.

The third day opened with the arrival of fresh Coalition forces from Sweden, south Germany, and Austria. Another 115,000 had arrived to bolster the Coalition. With fresh forces, they planned their most aggressive assault yet. Napoleon now came under fire from every side except for the west, and wave after wave slammed into them. The outer ring of defensive villages was lost as the Austrians surged forward, full of vigor and hunger. Next, the inner ring of defenses was attacked, and the villages themselves burned with the ferocity of fighting. This was quite literal. The sparking of guns and the firing of cannon set many a building on fire, and those fires spread. Not only that, but the incendiary munitions used by the Coalition were also burning away the fields surrounding Leipzig. The world was fuel for the flame. As the day stretched on, the French were pushed further back, until they were standing directly in front of Leipzig. However, at this point, they would not break any further. Napoleon had chosen his terrain well. No matter how strong the push, he was able to cycle his forces over to that part of the line, then return them immediately to their original positions. The French forces flowed along the Leipzig rivers as swiftly as the water did. Blucher and Murat were able to secure repeated flanks on the Austrians using river crossings. Indeed, at more than one time they would both flank from opposite sides at once, and the Austrians would immediately shatter. Once again, the day was Napoleon's. He had seen the best the Coalition could offer, and had bested it. Who could doubt his genius now? The man had faced down the world, with his back against the wall, and still triumphed. He had won at Leipzig! The Austrians were now unwilling to attack further, and the city was still his. He would not go after them now. He had learned his lesson against Wellington. Though they were victorious, they were almost completely out of powder and shot, the men were exhausted beyond belief, and provisions in the city were running low. The fields around Leipzig had been completely foraged away by the Coalition troops, and could not support any continued action. It was time to call his victory and leave.

With their forces humbled, perhaps now the British and Austrians would negotiate. Many writers, Hollywood directors, and amateur historians have opted to end the battle here. It was poetically fitting, after all. Napoleon, the man of destiny, had defied fate and won a victory over a Coalition of all Europe. They had sent their mightiest against them, and been found wanting. Blucher, proud commander of the Coronan army, who had seen a literal lifetime of war, had won one last great victory, and could now go into a peaceful retirement. A distinguished end to a distinguished career. He had begun his life of war at age 16, and now it could end, with Blucher now in his seventies. It was a ferocious battle, with much shock action, fitting a man with a ferocious and spirited character. Napoleon, who had wanted to make Paris a city beyond all others, would finally be able to enact his peacetime reforms. He had dreamed an impossible dream. The distances of Europe were too great for his time. It simply took too long to march from one end to another. By the time he had defeated one foe, another would spring up, fresh and eager on the other side of the continent. Despite that, he had his victory. All of Europe had tried to suppress France and the Revolution, and yet victory was still in Napoleon's hand. Not only had France survived, it had even expanded. At this point, Napoleon would have to surrender his satellite possessions, but the French Empire itself was still much larger than pre-revolution France.

If not for a crab, he would have ruled it all.

Poniatowski volunteered to fight a rearguard action while the remainder of the army retreated through Lindenau. They would regroup at a secure position, resupply, and negotiate the peace.

At the dawning of Leipzig, the Danish had been over a hundred miles away. No one would have expected their sudden arrival through imperfect terrain. However, each time King Eric stopped to rest, he felt the snapping of a crab claw upon his rear. With motivation given, he forced the Danish army into a fearsome forced march. Neither Napoleon nor any of his marshals had planned for this. The French were extended awkwardly, with half of the army in a marching column, and the rest preparing to leave. Only the rearguard was battle ready, and they were still in Leipzig. The Danish army slammed right into Napoleon's side, and immediately the Grande Armee was thrown into disarray. People attempted to rout every which way. Seeing and hearing the din of renewed combat, the Austrians rallied and rejoined the fray, attacking the disorganized French. Napoleon was one of only a few thousand to escape. Blucher would be dealt a leg wound that would claim his life before the decade was out. A shell landed near Anna Hohenzollern, and only the quick self-sacrifice of a nearby corporal stopped it from gutting her. She was quickly captured by Austrian dragoons. Poniatowski drowned in the fighting, as he was blasted from his horse into the river. Elsa was knocked unconscious by a nearby impact, and enemy infantry fell upon her. By the time one of the Austrian officers arrived to intervene, she had been bloodied and bruised all over. Her nose and several bones were broken, and teeth had been knocked out. If the officer had arrived any later, undoubtedly she would have been clubbed to death.

The dream was broken, and the French army was completely shattered. The French had sustained 110,000 casualties in the battle, and inflicted 265,000 casualties. But in the ensuing debacle of the fourth day, all but 7000 French had been killed, wounded, or captured. Now Napoleon ran back to France, to try and slap together defenses out of stout but completely untrained men. Corona was forced to surrender. Napoleon's own remaining time now numbered in months. Leipzig, so close to being a victory, had been snatched away at the last moment.


	70. Lying Around: Intermission

Anna sidled up nervously to the wooden door. With tepid anxiety and shakes in her knees, she knocked. No response.

"Elsa? I know you're in there. Please... answer me."

Nothing.

"I never meant for you to get hurt, I swear. I'm sorry."

Still no answer.

"...Do you hate me? I'd understand if you did."

Silence.

Anna wiped away the tears that were starting to form. It was okay. She'd just scared away her sister. Just alienated the best and closest friend she'd ever have or ever would have. It was fine. She had been lonely for so long, she could go back to that. Anna began to walk away.

She heard a sputtering cough from inside, then some grumbling.

"Come in," said her sister.

The room was dark and dry. Even through the shadows, though, Anna could tell her sister wasn't looking at her.

"Elsa?" asked Anna.

"If you're wondering why I'm not looking at you, it's because I physically can't right now. Could you light the lamp?"

Anna lit the lamp. Mottled lumps of bloody cotton were unceremoniously scattered over Elsa's face, and her body was wrapped neck to toe in stiff starched bandages.

"Could you also clean the cotton off my face? I had to spit it out just now. Dr. Seutin put these in my mouth to staunch the bleeding, but they make it impossible to talk."

Anna looked at Elsa. She was beaten up all over. Her lip was bloody and split, teeth were missing, and her left eye was a rich shade of purple. She swept the balls of used cotton away. Anna's face formed into a guilty grimace.

"I did this to you. This is all my fault!"

"No, a bunch of angry Austrians did this. I deserve this anyways."

"Why would you ever say that?"

"Remember the ship? The one that sank?"

"You saved our lives! They were enemy combatants, I don't see how-"

"I was getting off to that."

"Huh? Oh. Ummm... oh. I... ummm..."

"Yeah."

"I brought something for you."

"I can't see what you're holding. Immobile, Anna."

"Oh, right, silly me, stupid me, never-"

"You're not stupid, Anna. Just tell me what you have."

"It's the Fun Box!"

Anna unlocked a wooden chest, and retrieved a familiar snowman from inside.

"Hey, I don't mean to be a bother, but... this box hasn't been very fun. At all. It's almost like an anti-Fun Box," said Olaf.

"Sure it is!" said Anna.

"Yes, it's a pretty Fun Box," replied Elsa.

"Oh, alright. It's just that I hear screaming and yelling from outside, and it gets me a litttttllle bit worried sometimes," said Olaf.

"They're just... really excited to get inside their own Fun Boxes. Olaf, look, it's Elsa! Elsa loves warm hugs," said Anna.

"Oh boy! I love warm hugs too! We have so much in common, it's uncanny."

Olaf waddled over and began to hug Elsa's full-body cast. After a few minutes of hugging, he got back up.

"Alright Olaf, back into the Fun Box. We're going to have some more Fun now," said Anna.

"I don't want to go back into-"

"Sure you do, it's fun!"

Anna jammed Olaf back into the box and locked it.

"We should really tell him what's actually happening while he's in the Fun Box," said the Queen.

"We are never, ever, ever telling him anything. I don't want to spoil his innocence," replied Anna.

"Fine."

"So how's life?"

"Well, my butt itches. My leg itches. My whole body itches, and I can't scratch any of it. I can't scratch any of it for the next few months. My vision is fixed squarely on those blue dots you see on the ceiling. I've gotten to know them very well. Every few hours, Dr. Seutin stuffs more cotton in my mouth, but I must scream."

"Not fun?"

"Not fun."


	71. Like Skulls, but Skullier

This was quite possibly the stupidest reason for a fight in the history of everything.

As usual, she woke up with a piece of paper on her face. "Daily Spooky Reminder that you have SKELETON in your body! Wooooooooo!"

If she blinked quickly enough, she could knock it off her face. She had gotten very good at that. The slip of paper wafted gently down into a pile with the rest of the them. The Skeleton in your Body message was the most common one, and it usually was repeated every few days. The reminders ranged from the laughably wrong ("Insects have extra skeletons! Woooooooo!"), to the logically torturous ("Skeletons are made from milk. Babies love milk. Babies love skeletons! Wooooooo!"), to the nutritional ("Coconuts are the most skull-like of all fruits. Eat more coconuts. Wooooooo!"), to the absolutely absurd ("Pirates put skulls on their flag. I have a skull on my head. Therefore, I am a flag. Wooooooooo!"). At first, she thought the daily reminders were a joke. More and more, though, she wondered if Anna actually believed the things she wrote. This, like most bad things, was probably her fault. Had she really given Anna brain damage all those years ago? Certainly very plausible.

She looked up at the ceiling. Another new skull had been pasted there. The letters were slowly forming. Right now, it said "SPOC". Chances were, the word was "SPOOKY". It was at least a change of scenery. One of the skulls was starting to come loose, paste stretching out in a spindly string. Was it tearing right now? The skull fell, bonking Elsa in the face, then rolling off and hitting the ground with a tiny pomf. That answered that question.

She would take it all back if she could. She didn't even care that much, the matter had mostly just struck her as faintly ridiculous. But it had struck a chord in Anna, and that was that.

* * *

"Hey Elsa, I got us hats! Punzie is changing the uniform. See these? They started using them back when Frederick the Great was around. So much history. You like history, right?"

"But... we're not in the army anymore. Besides, Corona surrendered."

"Oh yeah, it's more like a planned uniform change. So I asked her to give us two of the new hats as a special gift. We can be twinsies! Aren't these hats the cutest thing?"

"They've got skulls on them."

"Yeah! Oh, they're so adorable. Mmmm, they're so fuzzy and warm and skull-covered. Nice. Convenient too. I'll come riding by, and some mean dude will be like 'oh, look at that sexy stone cold fox with the two skulls, I don't know what skull to shoot, blarg I'm dead.'"

"I'm not wearing that hat. It's covered in skulls."

"...Oh. Oh, I see. I see how it is. Everything I like is bad, and evil, and cruel, and everything you like is so perfect and good and nice! Because you're the perfect one! And if I complain, you can just shut me out again like you did YEARS AND YEARS! Well, you know what? YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN PLAY THAT GAME! I can shut you out too, how are you going to like that, huh? You'll see me again when you write me an apology letter! GOOD DAY SIR!"

Anna had stomped out and slammed the door behind her. Elsa was more than willing to apologize. There was one big problem with that plan, though. One big problem that Anna seemingly still hadn't realized. Elsa was in no position to apologize. Indeed, she was in no position to do anything that wasn't talking, staring, or blinking. These were a few of the reasons why a full-body cast sucked.

* * *

Elsa shuddered. Maybe Anna would leave and forget about her. She would be stuck here forever, alone in a bed surrounded by piles of skulls. Of course, it would all be her fault. What wasn't her fault these days? SPOC. A half-finished message well worthy of a half-finished life.

The skulls stared back at her, the empty sockets mocking her impotence. She had been a fool to think that song and dance numbers could solve her problems. Nothing could solve her problems, they ran too deep. They were all self-inflicted, too. Nobody was keeping her inside after her parents died. Nobody kept her from reaching out all these years. She had stayed an insensitive brat, and now she reaped what she had sown.

She heard the door open. Was it the doctor again? It was Anna, with a jar of paste, ladder, and sack of skulls.

"Hmmm... daily... daily spooky reminder that... that bones... are like onions. You can peel away the outsides and eat the the juicy parts," mumbled Anna.

"Anna!" said Elsa.

"Hey there, you're excited today," replied Anna.

"I thought I would never see you again!"

"Why would you think something silly like that?"

"The... the fight...?"

"What fight?"

"I... I don't think I imagined that... We had a fight."

"I don't remember any fight, but I'm sorry about it. We shouldn't ever fight, because we're like best buddies but better!"

"I missed you."

"I miss Kristoff. This reminds me of the time I woke up next to him in the middle of a minefield on the North Mountains, surrounded by chopped up animals and empty bottles of vodka. We were both naked, and I was covered in mud and camouflage. I had tattooed Kristoff with my menstrual blood. I was holding a knife between my teeth. It smelled like fresh pine needles. Good times."

"Wait, what?"

Elsa tried to scrub the image from her memory. It wasn't working.

"And that's how my son was conceived."

It really, really wasn't working. Why wasn't it working?

"Please, let's change the subject. How... how about trolls?"

"Oh yeah, those guys. Did you know they give terrible advice?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Elsa could see Anna idly juggling flaming knives.

"Tell me about it."

"Sure! One day, I went to visit the trolls for some advice. The troll didn't answer, he just laid there impassively, so I figured I had to beat him in a staring contest to get some help. So we stood there, staring at each other for like an hour, before I blinked. The troll still wasn't doing anything. Turns out, it wasn't a troll at all! It was just a rock. Crazeee... crazy stuff. Yup."

"Right."

Maybe she did give her sister brain damage. She was a terrible older sister.


	72. Light at the End

Battle after battle ensued in France, but the cause was doomed. With only 80,000 militiamen to his name, Napoleon could not stave off the Coalition's advance. In spring 1814, he abdicated to his young son, who was still playing in the Arendelle palace, completely oblivious to the occurrences on the continent.

In France, the Ancient Regime returned, oblivious to its own death. It shambled, a half-living thing, and sought to impose its will on a people already liberated. The nobles, resentful of the changes, and restored to their old positions by force, foolishly believed that things could return to the way they were. New rights were stripped away. The reforms were rolled back. The revolution was cleaned off the surface of France. Unfortunately for those hapless nobles, the changes had already gone more than skin-deep. The most effective way to enact lasting change is through a reign of blood. Rights won without great struggle are taken for granted. When blood is shed for a cause, then the cause feeds, grows hearty, and can crush the old order. If nothing is sacrificed, then the people do not feel a strong connection, even if the cause is exactly or even more worthy. Social movements are a march to war and death, and those that do not end in the shattering of the world do so because the foe is unwilling to risk its own life, and not for lack of character on the movement's behalf. The nobles thought they could restore their old ways without shedding blood for them. They were sorely mistaken. The people had tasted freedom, and they would not let their empire die so easily. The Ancient Regime was dead.

The nations of Europe stowed away their new weapons. The chemical weapons were harsh and indiscriminate. The incendiaries, even worse. There were cleaner, more humane ways of enacting area-denial, and with peace returning to Europe, the prospect of burning foes alive was repulsive to the extreme. Greek Fire was handy, but their current weapons were simply more efficient for the breaking and defeating of conventional enemies. For them, it was time to beat swords to plowshares. An opportunity now presented itself. Elsa's powers had only grown with age, but the powers of Europe had developed countermeasures. Now their countermeasures were being stowed away, and, if employed at the correct moment, the world might see what Elsa's power could really do.

The extent of Corona's involvement is still heavily debated. We know that Anna Hohenzollern, at least, was in the plot from the beginning, serving as one of Napoleon's eyes and ears on the continent. Between the Battle of Leipzig and the start of the Hundred Days, historians have uncovered a total of 214 letters between Duchess Ostlandet and Napoleon, and Anna was one of the first to rally to his banner when he landed on the French shore. Napoleon knew the depth of the French people's love for him. Every piece of the French political scene was relayed to his home in exile. The sheer scope of the conspiracy suggests Rapunzel's direct involvement. After all, a significant segment of the Coronan army was reconstituted, given new uniforms, resupplied, and delivered to Napoleon's waiting arms. The Polish elements of the Old Guard were all recalled, suggesting the involvement of someone fluent in Polish. The amount of coordination required means a high-ranking official was involved, and if the conspiracy went that high up, it is logical to assume that it went to the very top. The other powers would assume this to be the case following the Hundred Days. As of late, however, historians have proposed an alternative hypothesis. Traditionally, the documented nervousness and agitation shown by Anna Hohenzollern prior to the Hundred Days has been attributed to her worrying about her sister.

Assume that Anna is the primary force driving the Hundred Days, however, and a different picture emerges. It is a picture of a woman wracked by guilt, worry, and anger, not out of sisterly love, but out of the stresses of orchestrating a new invasion of the continent. Elsa had been hurt before, but Anna did lose control of herself at those times. But to intentionally deceive her sister was a different beast, and one potentially damaging to Anna's self-image and mental stability. Small wonder that she seemed distressed. It is possible that Rapunzel could convince Elsa to return to war. However, it is certain that Anna could, especially considering Anna monopolized the information flow to the wounded and infirm Elsa. Lying and lying have the same spelling, but very different meanings. Furthermore, as a battlefield princess, Anna had a better grasp of the tactical and strategic implications of Greek Fire, and the potential gains that could be made following disarmament. Rapunzel had never seen war personally. Rapunzel's Polish was much better, but years of leading Polish-dominated cavalry units had improved Anna's skills well beyond fluency. In addition, with Blucher now wounded and returning to retirement, and many of the other generals dead, the Coronan armed forces would see Anna as a natural successor and leader. Rapunzel could not be sure of this, but Anna would be able to feel this firsthand. Finally, Anna saw Elsa freeze over the North and Baltic Sea, while Rapunzel only heard of it through reports and saw secondary effects. Perhaps not damning on its own, but considering the French invasion plan and the path taken during the Hundred Days, it is yet another point in the hypothesis's favor.

Either way, the people of France were restless. The Ancient Regime could not return as if nothing had happened. Blood must be spilled. Napoleon would return and make Europe tremble one last time.


	73. Lives in Retrospect

The letter was mysterious and vague, and a more rational part of me said that it was a trap by slavers. Still, what was life without risk? The wording was unclear despite only using very simple words, and I wondered if I had even read it correctly, or if it had been mailed to the wrong man. It was a source, though, and a primary one at that. So I put on my coat, donned by hat, got my pen and paper, and went out to the docks. The sea air was salty and clean, and a low mist was draped over the shore. The distant horizon was obscured by haze, and the sun shined uneasily, as if fearing to bring its full power to bear on such an unsteady nation. I kept my eyes out, always on the alert, scanning for threats around me.

A man saw me, and began to walk right towards me. He did not appear to have the bearing of a slaver, but one could never be certain with these things. It was possible he was looking for someone else, as well. I tensed, and readied to make my escape if need be. His appearance was thoroughly exotic. A tall, furred cap lay on his head, adorned with the emblem of a skull and crossbones. His face was scarred, and an eyepatch hid the right eye. There was a slight limp to the walk, and the barest tensing of the body could be noticed whenever weight shifted to the left leg. A thick Prussian greatcoat was draped over his body, which appeared thickly muscled. He was not tall, but he intimidated despite that. He wore a military tunic on his chest, festooned with medals, tassels, and ribbons. His mouth was clamped on a meaty cigar, which puffed smoke hungrily. His hair was long and white, with a few strands dangling down to frame the face. A variety of revolvers were hung around his body, most of them of Colt manufacture, although one appeared to be an antique, as were several knives of varying size and shape. One arm rested on a saber dangling from his side, and it rattled and shook with a terrifying bloodlust. Try as I might, I could not discern where the other arm hid. There was a definite fierceness in those piercing blue eyes, and I could tell that he was an implacable foe. He continued his advance. I prepared to run, but I feared I would be unable to escape such a man. Then, he saluted. I was puzzled.

Then I noticed there was a certain softness to the features that I had not discerned before. Perhaps my initial assumptions had blinded me to it. The very possibility still seemed unlikely, but I would chance it.

"Excuse me... Mrs. H?" asked I.

"Takk, men du trenger ikke være så formell. Kaller meg Anna," said the person.

I blinked a few times. Was there something wrong with my hearing? At least the voice was distinctly feminine.

"Apology for poor English. I am... uhmmm... stupid idiot, forgot sometimes where I am. Hello. Yes, I am contact. Call me Anna," she said.

"So you are the expert?"

"I am. Fought in Napoleon's wars. Should find a better place to talk. Somewhere I can sit."

"Alright."

Her voice was peculiar, and the accent was one I could not quite place. It seemed a mixture between that of several different regions, and upper-class pronunciation was sprinkled with the coarse vulgar tone I recognized from our own army camps. I would best describe it as a cosmopolitan brutality. We walked into town, looking at various places. After a few minutes, my guest stopped and pointed at one of the places.

"There. Looks gut."

"That... establishment does not like my kind to enter, if you understand my meaning."

She simply smiled at me and shrugged.

"So? Who is going to stop me?"

She picked me up with her arm, then pushed open the door with her shoulder. Once inside, she set me down.

"Innkeeper! I would like a glass of beer for both me and my friend."

"No niggers allowed here," said the proprietor.

"Ah, I see I have not been heard. Two glasses of beer, innkeeper."

"I said no niggers."

Anna drew a knife, jagged from years of use.

"You see this knife? I first take knife from husband while in mountains. At wedding, he gives as gift. I know how to use this knife very well. He is a mountain man, yes. I think you know type. Very strong, very rough. I can beat him in fight. Now then. Two beers. I will supply this... tips afterward."

"Is that a threat? I've got a weapon."

"I'm sure you do. I would like if you did not hurt yourself with it. Two beers. Will give tip."

The innkeeper grudgingly acquiesced, and brought us two beers. I was about to drink, when Anna motioned to stop. She took a deep sniff of the beer, then nodded.

"My friend, many men have tried to poison me through the years. None have succeeded. I am afraid I've built a bit of an invincibility. Now then, I suggest you pour two new beers without the cyanide. This beer is evidence, and I have strong friends. But I like you, so new beers," said Anna.

The innkeeper turned a ghostly shade of white, then ran back with two new glasses of beer. Anna gave him 20 marks.

"Now then, let us talk. What do you want to know?" asked Anna.

"Well, everything, I suppose. Could you start from the beginning?" asked I.

"It all started in winter of 1803. A storm was blowing over Europe..."

She relayed me the story of the war, and I took notes. At one point, my concentration was broken. A few people were rabble-rousing outside. Soon enough, though, I was lulled back into the tale.

"And... that was that. The war was over. None of us ever saw or spoke with Napoleon again. He died on a diet of the British poison."

"I see. Why did you fight for him so long?"  
"Well... we were dreamers. We were young. We believed in the revolution. We believed in him. You know, he was a man that stirred the fire in your heart. He was very smart and kingly. Who could hold themselves back from such a man? But... I fell in love with the dream too much. I thought it could last forever."

"Would you do it all again?"

"No... no. Most of it, yes. But I betrayed my sister. She was the most pure, kind soul God ever put on this earth, and I abused her trust. I led her into the Hundred Days. It was not her business. She hated fighting. But my selfishness took hold of me. I thought this was the chance. I have never regretted anything more. I think... maybe I make her die too young. I put too much pain into her heart. For more than ten years, I have not seen her. It stings."

"What would you say about war?"

"It's a terrible thing. It is beautiful, yes, but there is so much danger there. You lose control of it. It is strong, stronger than all the men in it. You are now stumbling into it. Some think it will be short. Impossible. It is based on will. Americans are stubborn. You will bleed, and you will bleed much. But this, this also is needed. To destroy evil, it takes blood, yes?"

"I see."

The rabble from outside grew louder, and Anna suddenly walked outside.

"Hey, it's the nigger lover boy," said one.

"Do you want to fight?" asked Anna.

"You scared, darky boy?" asked another.

"No. I ask if you want fight. If you want fight, we fight, ja?"

"We're gonna give you the beating of a lifetime," said a third.

"Okay. We fight then," said Anna.

One of them stepped forward, and Anna slammed a haymaker into him, sending him flying back. Another drew his knife, and dashed at Anna. She stepped on his foot, grabbed the knife out of his hand, and slit his throat. He fell to the ground, choking on his own blood. Two came running with bats. First, she ducked out of the way of one, tripped him, and stomped on his head. Then, spinning around, she drew her saber, sliced the other bat in half, and cut him through the gut. One drew his pistol, and unloaded it at her. She simply walked towards, ignoring the fire. He ran out of shots. She drew her own gun and fired it once. He slumped into a heap. I dashed outside.

"Weren't you afraid?"

"Why would I be afraid of such soft men? Besides, I have diplomatic invincibility. This is not my country."

"Sometimes I don't feel like it's mine either."

"Would you die for it?"

"...maybe."

"Would you or would you not? There is only dead or alive, no half-dead."

"Yeah."

"Then it is your country."

With that, Anna walked off into the night.

* * *

Donald Freeman would never finish his book on Napoleonic History. He enlisted in a colored regiment, and was killed in battle. He would not get his book. But his sacrifice would buy something much more valuable for millions of Americans: Freedom.

Anna walked through the night, an old song slipping through her lips.

_Ich hatt' einen Kameraden, einen bessern findst du nicht._

It had been too long, far too long.

_Die Trommel schlug zum Streite, er ging an meiner Seite in gleichem Schritt und Tritt._

But, her life had been full, and lived without fear of death. There was that. Soon enough, she would see them.

_Eine Kugel kam geflogen: gilt's mir oder gilt es dir?_

Especially her. How had she managed to live without her?

_Sie hat ihn weggerissen, er liegt zu meinen Füßen als wär's ein Stück von mir._

Seward would take care of the mess. He was a good man. Curmudgeonly, yes. But who wouldn't be? People underestimated the diplomatic tangle that was happening between Britain and the US. A lesser diplomat would bring British intervention on the southern side. The country was rather beautiful. It was a shame war would soon ravage it.

_Will mir die Hand noch reichen, derweil ich eben lad'._

A good comrade. The best comrade she could ever had. More than that, too. Family. She had never doubted her, had always believed and been supportive. More than she could say about her own treatment of her poor sister.

_"Kann dir die Hand nicht geben, bleib du im ew'gen leben mein guter Kamerad!"_

But it was time to sleep. A good comrade, she was. They would meet again in God's hands.


	74. Liberty, Egalite, Fraternity

Do you believe in Jesus Christ?

Napoleon paced about repeatedly. At times, he would descend into wailing and sobbing, and mumble the name of Josephine. At other times, he would bury his head in his hands, a map of Europe rolled out before him. The island of Elba was run like a French Empire in miniature. The Elbans did not like authority. The island had seen many masters, none of them welcome. Napoleon was merely one in a long line of rulers that had imposed themselves on the island. Napoleon, followed by a small band of his Imperial Guard, put down the resistance. The taxes were high, and the people grumbled and moaned. Still, they paid. A thousand building projects were started, then abandoned as manpower proved insufficient and difficulties too great for Napoleon's ambition. The island of Elba was far too small a host for Napoleon's dreams, and the half-finished buildings littered the island, monuments to a still-lingering hunger for power.

Whenever foreign emissaries came over, Napoleon shaped up, especially when they were British. He was the picture of frankness and affability. He bore no ill will against his foes now. His only wish was a quiet retirement and peace for France. The emissaries let him be, and the soldiers were resupplied.

The Bourbons, though, still feared him. The Congress of Vienna rolled on, diplomats discussing and debating the new shape of Europe. Caving to pressure, it was decided to deal with Napoleon. Elba was too close to France, and the Bourbon hold too unsteady. Already, plans were being drawn up to send the Man of Destiny to St. Helena. There, he could be stripped of even the last pretenses of power he still had. Napoleon knew of this. He had hundreds of eyes and ears scattered around Europe. The loyalty he could command, even as his own powers waned, was staggering. In the end, the loyalty would be his immortality, and not his empire. It was clear now that he would either die, or take one last risk for glory.

Caesar would always cross the Rubicon. The Eagle readied himself to take his liberty.

I believe in the resurrection.

* * *

When the moon rose, so did the volume. The clattering roll of the drums would flare up, and the thudding of boots would fill the streets, drunk men rambling of lost freedoms. Each morning, as the sun rose to banish the night, Adam would stare into those empty cobbled streets with bloodshot eyes. The peasants were getting bolder, and nobody seemed to be doing a thing about it. Even La Marseilles was heard as the nights grew fierce with agitation. The Bourbon suppression had been inept. They had forced the Church back upon the people, failing to realize that God no longer spoke to their hearts. They had sliced the pay of the veterans in half, expecting to cow them. Instead, it had only stoked the fire in their hearts. Napoleon was now gone, exiled to Elba, but the Bourbons still feared him. The allowance granted to Napoleon in abdication was cut, then cut again. Perhaps they thought poverty could destroy a man where gunfire and bayonets had failed.

His brother approached, worry furrowing his brow. The eyes of the Duke of Orleans darted back and forth, and his legs twitched uneasily, as if waiting for foes to spring from every nook and cranny.

"How did you sleep, brother?" asked the Duke.

"What do you think?" replied Adam.

"Despicable, these rabble," said the Duke.

"The nobles are using their powers again."

"And rightly they should! We supported the revolution, and look how they treated us. Prisoners in our own homes."

"How is Belle?"

"The fever continues. She needs more rest."

"She won't be getting it."

"Excuse me?"

"You see the knitters knit, brother. We need to escape the city."

"Heavens preserve us, Adam, you're suggesting you leave everything behind for a few rabble-rousers?"

"I do. Give a taste of freedom to a man, and he will never forget it."

"We gave everything to the revolution."

"It doesn't matter."

"It should. It should!"

"The world isn't fair."

"Feh. Whatever happened to egalite?"

"It never was, and never will be. All they'll see is another set of nobles, and the streets will be stained with blood."

"Your wife is still ill."

"Better the fever than the guillotine."

The carriage trundled out of the city, rolling carefully over the roads. The wheels paced onto the stone, and did so with care and grace. Its destination was a small village in the French countryside. They had a manor there, and could hide while the storm raged on. The lonely houses lay there. Old faces peeked out, only slightly changed from the ones there many years ago. This little slice of rural life had not been touched by the Revolution. Here, perhaps, they could find peace.

* * *

The letter was burning a hole in Anna's pocket. It had been carefully ciphered, of course, and a spy would find nothing except for Anna's usual disjointed, half-coherent ramblings. Only Napoleon and those most loyal to him could crack the code.

Final preparations had been made. Anna had friends in high places, and it had been easy enough to corrupt the system. Obscure miscellany in the budget hid where the money was really going. She couldn't pull such a trick on Elsa, of course, but the Coronan system was much larger, and Rapunzel did not review the budgets as meticulously as Elsa did. A percent here, a shave there, a bit of overestimation there, and millions upon millions of marks could be embezzled out of the system into Anna's pockets, and from there, into the resupply and reconstitution of the army.

She continued to walk through the camp. She spotted Elsa, who was engaged in a little song and dance, sending sparks and wisps of snow flying about. The cast had finally come off. She tried not to make contact with the large, sad pools of Elsa's eyes. Even when Elsa was happy, those eyes were somber and restrained. Don't tell her anything, she said to herself. Don't show anything, she thought. If she asks about anything, make up something stupid and change the subject. It was of the utmost importance that Napoleon's wife not be informed until it was too late to change course. The invasion must go through as planned. It was their last real chance to seize victory and fulfill their dreams. Dreams were important. Dreams didn't die. It was only the trading of a minor, familial fraternity for a fraternity between all men. That was worth the sacrifice.

The letter changed hands. It was off, now. Detailed troop reports, supply locations, an itinerary planned by loyal Frenchmen, landing locations, and the laying out of a campaign. Strike at London. They had never ceased in their pursuit of Napoleon. Decapitate this most fervent of Coalition members, and the rest would allow Napoleon to reclaim his crown in peace.


	75. March to the Sound of Guns: Interregnum

Even if you told the Queen that an entire province was in open revolt, she could probably laugh it off. Her own natural bubbliness had complemented the need for royal reserve, and it was difficult to deliver any news that could disturb Corona's sovereign. Even as the Congress of Vienna soured, with the powers looking to punish Corona for its siding with Napoleon, Rapunzel remained cheerful. The situation was recoverable. Annex a few of the allied northern states, and the territory loss would be compensated for. Besides, everything was accounted for. Later historians would consider how Alexander I essentially saved Corona at the Congress, and secured the alliance far into the future.

When the courier broke this piece of news, though, Rapunzel's jaw dropped. Her eyes narrowed to tiny dots, her jaw clenched ever so slightly, and for the briefest of instants, you could even the nibbling of mice as they ate their meals of dust in the castle walls. Before anyone could react, though, her eyes returned to their normal fullness and she gave her orders with a simple wave. Recall Blucher from retirement. Rally the remaining loyal troops. Send the Kingdom Guards to remove suspicious persons, no knocking. Bureaucrats found to have participated in the conspiracy would be purged softly, transferred to distant backwaters.

Blucher was riding off within the day. A grin was spreading across the old man's face. He saw himself on a grassy field, personally executing Napoleon. It was enough to feed energy back into old bones. So the old hound was dispatched to bring the young one to heel.

"Use the troops to gently persuade my wayward cousin into taking her proper place."

The orders were clear as day. The Coronans marched west, towards destiny. Towards the Man of Destiny. The Sun would melt the wax from the Eagle's wings.

* * *

Failure was no longer an option. What would Rapunzel do if she caught her? Execution for treason? Imprisonment for life?

The fact that her sister had come along without even a second thought was little comfort. She was abusing her trust.

What was she to do, though? Elsa was an integral part of the plan. Love was putting someone else's needs above her own. She needed Elsa, but the world needed Napoleon. The world needed the French Revolution. Already, the nations of Europe were trying to revert all of the progress made in those twenty years of blood. Someone had to stop them.

Then again, she might not even know what love is.

The route had been carefully plotted to include bastions of Bonapartist support. Across the country, fleur-de-lisles and white banners were torn down from church spires and town halls, replaced by the tricolor. The Bourbons had taken countermeasures. The army and bureaucracy had been forced to swear new loyalty oaths to the monarchy. Many officers had been purged, replaced with men whose only qualification was the ability to toady. It was not enough.

Napoleon was a masterful propagandist, and he proceeded to paint himself as a tired man drawn back into the service of his homeland and the republic, one under attack by foreign influences and a puppet monarchy. He landed in the south of France with a thousand of his most elite guards, and marched north. Along the way, old soldiers and fervent young men flocked to his banner. Crowds tore down gates for him, and festooned the roads of France with symbols of devotion. The Eagle had returned. In Lyons, Anna arrived with 45,000 Coronan troops, ready to fight for the Emperor. The French army was sent to deal with Napoleon. Unfortunately for the hapless Bourbons, their purge had not been thorough enough. General Lessard had been in contact with Napoleon, and when Napoleon saw the royalist army, he tore off his coat and bared his chest, daring any man to kill him if that was their will. The soldiers broke into a charge, but they did not do so with bayonets. Instead, it was a great weeping happiness that they brought to bear, and they hugged and kissed their returned Emperor. Ney had promised to bring Napoleon back to the King in a cage, but faced with such Bonapartist support, he abandoned the monarchy and rallied to Napoleon's banner.

Still, the return should have been put down. If the Bourbons had been more able, they could have deployed troops to the south of France immediately, troops with thoroughly checked loyalty, and killed Napoleon before he could perform his propaganda coups. Now, faced with collapsing support, the Bourbons fled. France was Napoleon's once more.

It was not a certain thing, though. Napoleon had gained a great deal of support by claiming to be the Revolution's son, but the Bourbons had implemented their own liberal constitution. As such, Napoleon had to create his own, one even more liberal. Of course, he had no intention of following it, but the very existence of the document fettered him. In royalist strongholds, civil war broke out once again, as it had more than a decade prior. Troops could not be spared to put down the revolts. It was of the utmost importance that the plan be followed. The army would strike north decisively. North was the direction of victory. Support was warm, but only just. Everyone knew that Napoleon's return meant further war, and the citizens of France were tired. The blood of millions had watered the fields of Europe, and France had seen generations disappear into the gunsmoke of war. Local governments retained their royalist officials, and peaceful resistance began to sap the French income and manpower.

In truth, it was probably an impossible dream. Even if they had won Waterloo and knocked Britain out of the war, the entire world had turned against Napoleon. He had been painted as a tiny mockery of a man, with only bloodlust and ambition flowing in his veins. He would have to conquer all of Europe again just to have peace.

One last time, though, the Eagle would fly. The Man of Destiny had returned.


	76. Man versus Man

The Napoleonic Wars had already had abnormally high casualty rates for the period. Elsa had erred, and she did not even realize it. Routs were now complicated by sticky flames covering exits, ice walls blocking off retreats, clouds of still dissipating chemicals, and the pursuit of untiring, unerring icy demons. Rout just became another path to a horrific death. When all options lead to death, and the only chance of victory is through combat, then fight they shall. Elsa had been trained in many aspects of statecraft, but perhaps her own aversion to harming others for any reason had caused her to neglect her studies in war. Inadvertently, all battles had become battles on death ground. In the Napoleonic Wars, there was no retreat and no surrender, only glorious death in battle. Of all those battles, Waterloo would be by far the deadliest. Four out of every five men sent would never go home again.

The sun loomed large over the battle to come. Anna breathed in the crisp air, and smelled the salt starting to waft in. The sea was getting closer. The furthest elements of army still trailed behind. At the moment, they were in a small village to the rear. The name of it? Waterloo. The name was insignificant, of course. It barely hung in Anna's subconscious, and even then, by the barest of threads. Her sister's soft fingers curled outwards, frost trailing from them. Snow golems were being created at a rate of 125 per minute. That's more than two per second. Years ago, it would take whole seconds just to create one snow golem. Now Elsa was capable of recreating Paris, population and all, in only three days.

She looked up at the sun again. How much had it moved? It had to be tracked carefully, the shadows had traced. What she would do for a good watch. Probably kill, it was one of the only things she was good at. Things had to be done. Napoleon spent much of his time staring at maps, and raging at the sun now. He no longer dictated orders, he waited on consul. It was regrettable. Columns had to be kept in perfect marching order, and coordinated as to not run into each other. The path was carefully set. Of course, the plan would not last forever. Ideally, though, it would last long enough. The sea grew nearer.

A rider came, breath racing ahead of his body like a charger. He arrived, and then he caught his breath. There was dire news. The enemy had raised a new coalition, and their forces had just impacted on the rear, near Waterloo.

And now, the time had already slipped away. Anna turned her horse around, and motioned for her sister to follow.

"Elsa? Activate it," said Anna.

Elsa nodded mutely, and turned her hands groundward. Ice began to slick the Belgian earth. Across the field, ice walls formed. The most massive separated the forward force from the remainder of the army, and the enemy. The snow rose up, forming into a maze with a radius of 40 miles. Blind walls and unending corridors formed, with no exits or entrances in sight. Those would come later. They continued their ride.

There was Waterloo, savaged by war. Marshal Ney was holding the defensive position with a rearguard, as the enemy force struggled to take the hills. Still, he would be swamped by men. Scouts were taking the strength of the enemy. Here, the British had finally committed to the war in full force. Of course, their army was not large to begin with, and it was stretched across the globe. Despite holding much of the world in their grasp, the British army was only as large as the Coronan one at full strength. Notions of British rights, and a lack of the same warrior spirit that animated the Coronan mindset, plus a belief that it was unseemly, kept conscription off the British table for the Napoleonic Wars. A full fifth of the British army was composed of foreign recruits. This meant that even the full commitment made here was only 80,000 men. They were outnumbered by even their own assorted allies. There were more Spanish there than British. There were more Portuguese than British. There were more assorted Germans than British. There were certainly more Austrians than British. Even the small force of 40,000 that had arrived with Blucher compared favorably to the British size. Still, the British had a way of controlling the narrative, and over time, they would become known as the deciding force at Waterloo, and eventually the whole war.

Immediately, snow golem reinforcements began to bolster the French line. Ice blasts fell into the enemy lines, and ice spikes disrupted their formations. Icy angels buzzed with activity, diving again and again towards the Coalition forces. Now the enemies of Napoleon came underneath a continuous bombardment. Paths forward were suddenly blocked off by ice. The field was made treacherous with rough and smooth ice. A storm was formed over them, disturbing vision and chilling them to the bone. Anna listened for the breaking of trees and splintering of wood. She listened for the soft thuds and blasting apart of bodies. There was much of that. Fire had scarcely touched the battle, though. A few golems went down, here and there, collapsing into clouds of steam, but most of the munitions used were conventional. Every time, they were careful to find the range and pinpoint the exact location of the shot using many normal cannonballs before using fire. It was clear that they were conserving their incendiaries, and likely were short on them. Just as planned.

Still, the French line would be overrun. The mass of the enemy was simply too great. The Coalition pressed forward simply on the mass of its bodies. Human wave tactics were brutal and thuggish, but they were yielding fruit that day. Behind them, the maze grew upwards. Stairs connected the previously isolated paths, and an intricate web was woven, with passages going up and down and up again, and a circuitous road was forged going through the citadel. Defenses and positions were laid down. Marshal Ney prepared to hold with a few last men before the village of Waterloo was completely compromised. The rest of the French retreated to the icy fortress. If the Coalition wished to advance further, they would have to raid the newly formed Waterloo Citadel.

Blucher was indeed conserving incendiaries. His plan was simple. Break the village with sheer manpower, then force through the citadel using fire, ignoring all the prepared defenses and traps undoubtedly guarding the walls. Walking along the corridors would give no chance of survival if they suddenly burst into spikes, or the walls came and crushed them, or a golem confronted a small group of men head on. One line, burning clear through, like a spear through the heart of a witch, or a gunshot into the head of a tyrant that had lived far too long. Blucher smiled.

Anna made her retreat into the castle, sister coming along. They passed through an endless procession of doors. Along the way, they confronted a group of enemy infantry, stragglers from a battalion now completely devastated. Her sister was already reeling internally from having to channel so much power, and channel it towards destructive ends. Anna would deal with them personally. There were only 25 of them. Not a big problem. One of them was barking out orders in an angry voice, and they rushed at her. Their shots, panicked and unsteady, either missed, or dealt blows that were grazing at best. In melee, they were clumsy and slow, and she cut them up with grace, power, and elegance. The enemy leader was studying her, looking for a pattern to her actions that could be exploited. That was a problem. She suddenly switched her style of combat, and stymied his plans. One by one, they fell. She resisted the urge to shout something out as each of them died. Soon enough, the meager band of 25 had been wiped out. There was no time to rest. More would be coming.

They arrived at the shore, and Anna saw what her sister had wrought. Already, many of the French forces were on the ice. This was the plan, to march straight across the ocean. British naval superiority was now irrelevant. They would storm London by land. Across the sea, mothers held their children nervously, and fathers hacked desperately at the earth, trying to break the frost that now held the Thames in its grip. It was no good. Elsa was creating a path straight to London, and the French would take the city in conventional battle. Anna began to direct the stream of men as they poured onto the ice. Bit by bit, Napoleon's army surged towards England. Finally, it was time for them to cross. Anna kicked her horse, and it stirred to life. Its hooves touched ice.

And then the air was blasted from her lungs, and the horse was running off, and the sharp crack was drowning out everything, and she was falling to the earth, droplets of blood floating through the air, as time froze.

From the top, maestro. Play it again.


	77. Man versus Self

He could see the battle in his mind's eye, and see it with the clarity of an eagle in flight.

Could he manipulate it still? The columns were ossified, and refused to yield to his commands. The field returned to its original shape each time he pressed it, a liquid, roiling thing.

What would happen to him if he failed? Perhaps an escape to America could be made. They would welcome him with open arms.

Forward, they had to press forward. More ground had to be seized. Strike with momentum and power. He had said that once, he was sure. Use the mass to your advantage.

The goal? Peace, perhaps. Maybe power. Who really knew these days?

He had listened to the planning. It was a good plan, most likely. Neutralizing enemy advantages was important.

Sometimes the voices were unfamiliar. Each passing day made the faces less familiar. Where were his old marshals?

Had it all been for this?

He loved his son. He had never seen his son. He ought to. There were a lot of things he ought to do.

His horse carried him ahead.

Where was the maneuver, the unquenchable brilliance of battle? Again, the future fell back into its slovenly shape, two bruisers, two sides, slogging at each other, a pointless battle of Olympians.

His face was wet, and he wiped it off.

He was fat, but no longer a hungry man.

So many people had been loyal to him. They were loyal still, were they not?

In the distance, he heard cannons thunder. The battle had begun.

The maze was growing, forming into a great towering thing. His advisers had told him it would form, in their ceaseless babbling. It was good. Even if he fell here, Europe would look upon it and remember. They would remember the man who had laid them low again and again.

The march back had been a great propaganda coup, but it shouldn't have been propaganda. All Frenchmen should have clamored for him. What was the sea of indifference that now swirled around him?

Yes, memories. He would leave a legacy worth remembering. Paris was the city of lights he had promised, wasn't it? Maybe. Maybe not.

Image mattered. Napoleon kept his image impeccable. Defeat might mar that image.

Only eight of his marshals had rallied to him. The others had forgotten him, or were dead.

It had to be perfect. Perfection was impossible. The perfect was the enemy of the good. By striving for perfection, Napoleon could no longer act in a manner merely good. His legacy had now overshadowed him.

Was his glory lost in a great sea of indifference? The people did not praise his name as they did before.

Had he really returned from Elba?

A thousand half-finished projects littered the shores of that tiny land.

Were his improvements that much better here? Who knew what could stand the test of time?

He could. He would. They would remember his name, he was sure.

If only Josephine had lived.

He had never been perfect. He had to scheme his way into power. His victories were great, true, but they could always be better. Everything could always be better.

For the first time in forever, Napoleon was small.

Josephine! Where was she in his hour of need? The sun had been put out, and the moon was a poor substitute. It could only reflect the splendor of the sun.

Forward, always forward. His horse kept up the steady pace. A conqueror was like a cannonball.

Ahead, the citadel loomed large, reaching one defiant hand into the heavens.

He climbed. He reached the top. He saw.

He saw the jewel-encrusted sea, as it was transmuted from glittering sapphire to iridescent diamond. The swarm of tiny men flowed onto it, a film of oil gleaming o'er the sea. The sky stretched out above him, begging him to spread his wings and fly. The blue was above him, the blue was below. The ice made great bands of white across the world, a monument of some kind, though he knew not to what. Hundreds of thousands had arrived to oppose him, and yet they strived in vain. Their bodies lay crumpled and broken along the fields, blood staining the grass a dark red. Red, blue, and white, the tricolor of France. He felt his blood boil at the notion. First Britain, then he would bring the continent back into his system. Then what? He would make himself the better of Alexander. The ancients had conquered much, but they had not faced so many empires as mighty as their own. He would march across the Hellespont, he would destroy the Ottoman Empire. From there, he would go beyond and seize India, conquer Cathay. The world was already falling into his pocket.

He had risen from nothing before, hadn't he? Who would've guessed the tiny and unimpressive corporal would become a great man? Whiff of grapeshot. Just one of the legends he had fabricated full cloth to facilitate his rise to power. He could weave miracles from nothing, and crushing victories from ashes and dust. From humble Corsica, he had come to rule all of France. Citizen-Emperor, that was he. He had become Consul, destroyed his triumvirate, foiled his Brutuses, and there were dozens of those Brutuses, and built an empire over all Europe, and he had done it starting from nothing. At age 30, he had come to rule an entire country, and by 40, he had defeated all the great nations of Europe several times. There was still time. He was still young. He stretched out his hand, and cupped the distant sun in his palm.

I am become myself again, he thought.

Footsteps rang down the citadel, Napoleon's legs flurrying with speed. He came to the shore, and rejoiced. They would need him to lead them. He would set the example. Atop his horse, the mighty and brilliant general once more, he would guide them into the future.

The soldiers marched on, and Napoleon kept up his stately bearing.

Then the sound of gunfire broke the steady rhythm of the march. Napoleon heard a high-pitched scream from behind, followed by a sharp cracking and splintering, the noise of a billion wine glasses falling to the ground at once, the noise of a glass cathedral smitten by an angry god. The ice blanketing the sea, seemingly sheer and impenetrable, began to crack and melt. Then, the world dissolved into an ashy white cloud, the torrential sound of avalanche drowning out anything else.

From the top, maestro. Play it again.


	78. Man versus Nature

Dew blessed the grasses of Waterloo, tiny spheres filled with all the promise and love a fresh field could provide. Franz's pack was heavy with supplies, the sundries of life. This was it, the day when Napoleon's evil empire would come crashing down once and for all. His ambition had already been dealt a mortal wound at Leipzig. This was just the execution.

Franz paused to look over the rolling greenery. It was pleasant, with a breeze passing by that was slightly chill, but not uncomfortably so. Birds chirped cheerfully, and the vultures flew overhead with pleasant, forgiving gazes. Snowflakes were falling, and Franz caught one on his tongue, savoring the brief instant of snowmelt on his tongue.

They had formed into rows. It was time.

Across the field, cannons were rolled up into a grand battery.

His unit was being deployed alongside several Sardinians, led by the King's brother, Charles Felix Philip di Savoia. It was a peculiar name, but a prophetic one, as one had to go back hundreds of years to find a Philip in the Savoyan line, and hundreds of years further back still to find the originator, a prince of Arles in a long lost age of Karlings and dead Kingdoms, a dynastic history that now only existed in a meaningful sense in the female line, one of many bloodlines to have fed into the House of Savoy. But, this little droplet was enough. In the Kings of Italy was the legacy of a man who destroyed an evil sorceress and broke a briary curse. In every noble house, there was a kind of legacy like it, for nobility does not spring from the earth fully formed. It is born from knights and heroes, those who do great service or seize power with their own raw hands. This is the legacy of their blood. Every house has a founder.

Franz knew none of this. Not even the House of Savoy knew, for almost a thousand years of time will weather any ancient legend. Still, he was at ease.

The lines advanced, and cannon fire began to tear into them. To the side, a man's limbs were blown clean off, the torso and head flopping lazily in the air, carried off by a cannonball. The row would mitigate much of the damage, though, and only that one man had been ended by that one shot. Another blast, and one man was liquefied within his jacket. Dazed and shocked, he opened his jacket, only to collapse into a puddle of bloody mush. Little by little, his unit was being reduced.

His muddy boots rose, and then stamped into the ground again and again. This was the march forward. It was taken one step at a time, as bullets riddled the air and cannon made its fearful blustering known. Is there any wonder that soldiers break and rout? It is a testament to human courage that men will advance to their deaths without complaint.

They were getting closer. Of course, their foe was now reinforcing their position. Vicious thorns and briars grew unto the battlefield, tearing apart feet as easily as they did boots. Vile snowy automatons took the field, rushing into their lines and dealing icy death before they melted away. The men did not break. Their shield was virtue, their sword was truth. Their general rode with them, unbowed by any shows of wicked sorcery.

A host of unholy angels flew towards them, but they did not falter. At the head was a great beast of myth, an ice dragon to rival any creature of old. Its fearsome wingspan stretched across the sky, blotting it out. It let loose a single breath, and 500 men were suddenly frozen solid. It swiped a claw across the line, tearing entrails out. Single, gasping breaths were made by already dead men, as they gazed upon their own innards laid out before them. It crushed heads beneath its fearsome talons.

Charles Felix did what came naturally to his blood. He threw his weapon. Of course, advancements in technology had made that not an incredibly stupid idea. You see, his sword of truth was actually a flamethrower of werfing flammen. His weapon was fire, and the fire was thrown, and it struck the beast's heart. The dragon screamed, a high-pitched wailing lament, as she began to dissolve. The flames clung to her, ravaging the body, and if the dragon fell into the line, they would burn the men to cinders. So Charles Felix did what came naturally to his blood, again. He threw his other weapon. The sword hurtled through the air in its fateful journey, and struck the dragon in the face, hilt-first. This little bit of mass probably didn't do anything. But the dragon fell backwards, slain. Cheers went up from the line, and they continued their forward march.

Faced with such an unerring advance, the French began to abandon their positions. Their defenses could not hold against a heroic and noble advance.

The French now retreated into their thorny, spiky death fortress of doom, the citadel cutting an imposing figure over the fields of Waterloo. But even a cursed castle like that could not stop the attacks of righteous men, led by a charming Prince.

They opened up their flamethrowers, and began to push through the citadel.

Hairline imperfections and tiny ocher lines covered the corridors, the blood vessels of a leviathan. His heartbeat faded away, becoming one with the beating heart of the citadel. It howled in pain, the metallic groaning and straining of pillars no longer able to support the weight above them, as support columns were forcibly melted away. It was a living creature, the body of a malevolent sorceress. One wrong move, and everyone would be crushed into flesh paste. He had seen it happen already. One private, overeager, stepped forward too fast. The citadel had twitched, and an ice wall had slammed into him, leaving nothing left. Franz held a flamethrower now. The last man to hold it had suddenly been impaled by spikes of ice bursting out of the floor. The further they penetrated, the purpler and redder the ice became.

Attrition was a funny word for dead men. A booby-trapped chandelier here, a corridor with an angry snow golem there, French hiding behind a dead corner. The unit melted away. His fuel reserves melted away. Franz stole a glance at his fuel gauge, and noted the distressing news. It was gone. The clicking and furtive empty noises of his weapon as he attempted to fire it confirmed the meter's dread proclamation. He took up a dead comrade's musket. He still had his own bullets.

There was much distance to go, but it was no longer a straight line there. The path would now go up, along endless twisting mazes and stairwells.

But Franz was pure of heart, and such an airy and divine spirit was naturally drawn skywards. All the briar thorns and deadly traps of Waterloo Citadel could not stop him.

He climbed.

And when he reached the top, all the kingdoms of the world were laid before him, in their wondrous riches. He saw the nations of Earth from his aerie towering above the world. These delights were not for him. He was a small man, a small-town boy, and needed only his duty. His eyes darted about, and found their target. He prayed for a shot to defeat the ice witch, and fired.

The bullet was carried forth by the Austrian winds.

Impact, a bite into flesh.

He cut off da capo, and the witch's song repeated no more. The eternal curse was broken, and time would repeat no more. The world crawled forward, the stasis of winter's grip no longer chaining its sleeping beauty.

The citadel cracked and crumbled to dust. The floor gave way beneath him. He fell, impaled ankle to pelvis by a ice spike before that too melted away.

* * *

**Author Notes****:** I am aware that there is a line pinpointing Sleeping Beauty in the 1300s. However, Counts of Savoy sounds much less dignified than Kings of Arles, even if it is more accurate. We could assume that it was a minor error, and that 14th century was actually meant to refer to the 1400s, but the Duchy of Savoy still sounds less impressive than the Kingdom of Arles, even if we do have the succession of the two Phils.


	79. Man versus God

God is dead.

The bullet tore through Anna's body, shredding flesh into stringy bits and crunching bone apart. Her arm was reduced to a pulpy, torn up mess, with long globs of meat barely dangling by sinews and tendons, blood leaking from severed vessels.

Elsa's fragmented consciousness, spread thin over a thousand square miles of unending snowstorm, snapped back into focus, the high-pitched scream ripping her out of the magical trance. Summer snows were not meant to be. The great crystalline tower, which scraped the heavens and challenged the sky, came tumbling down with a sharp crack. The swirling, twisting power came to a total still, snowflakes hanging in mid-air. The remnants of the tower were falling all around, disintegrating into a giant cloud of snow, blotting out the entire world before falling to the earth and melting into nonexistence.

And God said nothing.

The snow blew back inwards, coalesced onto Elsa, and then stopped. Her sister was lying there. Elsa lazily tumbled off her horse, and hit the ground. She steadied herself, and stood up again. Then, she took stilted, stumbling steps towards her sister, mucus and watery blockage building deep in her throat, choking gasps replacing normal breaths of air. Her tears were thick with salt, and they stung at the cold softness of her face. Her lumbering gait brought her to Anna, and she fell onto her knees, burying her head in Anna's body, the wracking sobs finding full release.

Elsa pressed her head against Anna's chest, and felt the flickering heartbeats. It was impossible that her sister was so fragile. It couldn't end like this. Anna had defied the country for her. Anna had fought the world. Anna could beat anyone, couldn't she? One measly bullet was all it took. That wasn't right. That wasn't proper. Anna's chest heaved beneath Elsa, and her sister coughed up a gobbet of blood.

"Elsa..." came the whisper. "You have to... have... to..."

"Have to what?" asked Elsa.

"St... sta... staunch the bleeding. Freeze my arm... now... not... no time."

Elsa lifted her head, and looked at her ungloved hands. Visions of frozen heads and hearts raced through her eyes, but she pulled them away. There was danger there, but danger never came without power. She caressed the mangled stump, and the power came. Sparks danced up the grisly wounds and over Anna's hair, turning a streak white. The strands of flesh frosted over, then froze solid. The blood was sealed away behind a dam of ice. Elsa looked into her sister's eyes. They were dull and glassy, but not yet dead. The light was dim, ever so dim, within them. She stopped the magic. Tendrils and fingers of frost continued to grow from the frozen stump, slowly creeping towards Anna's chest, blackening and destroying whatever they touched.

"Please Anna... you can't die on me. Don't leave me alone again. I don't want to be alone," said Elsa.

"Shhh... shhhhh... can't kill me that easily. Get... on the horse. Have to move... move fast. Speed... key," replied Anna.

Elsa tugged at Anna, straining to carry the weight. She doubled up on force, then doubled again. Her legs began to feel acid burn. Her arms were tearing with the exertion. She was wheezing and hacking and coughing, and then she felt Anna leave the ground, as the sweat poured into her eyes, blurring and obscuring the world, and burning her eyes. With one final push, she boosted Anna onto the horse, and climbed onto the saddle.

"Anna, don't give up, keep fighting. Stay with me, you have to!" whispered Elsa.

"Won't... won't give up... you know I never... never do," said Anna.

"I can't be alone again. You're all I have left. You're the world to me."

"Never... alone. I... was always there... outside the door... keep going... find fire... has to still be... burning... ride."

Elsa kicked her horse into motion, and they rode through the dripping ruins of the citadel. Off in the distance, she spotted a patch of still-burning Greek Fire, and turned to ride towards it. The great beast thundered beneath them, roiling muscles pumping away with frenetic force, propelling them across the field. The day was filled with the music of screams, a chorus of the suffering dead.

"Elsa... were we the good guys or the bad guys?" asked Anna.

"I don't know, Anna. I don't know what to believe anymore," replied Elsa.

"I believe in you. Do you believe in me?"

"Yes, yes I do. What else is there? The world's gone mad, absolutely mad!"

Anna was caught up in another coughing fit. The ice continued to spread, reaching away from her destroyed arm.

"Then... then that's fine... I think that's enough," said Anna.

Storm clouds were gathering above, and the sky was darkening. The unnatural grip of winter had ended. Elsa rode on, towards the distant flames. They rode on through the sea of corpses.

"What do you think heaven is like?" asked Anna.

"Snow. There's snow everywhere, and carrots, and little bits of coal, and buttons, and our parents, and so much snow. Snow to build a million snowmen with. Not yet Anna, not yet. You can't go alone."

"It... sounds nice. Sounds very nice."

"I want to go too, but not yet."

"I want to build a happy snowman."

"We'll build one, Anna! Together, we'll go together. Hold on a little longer, you have to!"

They came to the fire. It was saluted by the burning flags of Sardinia and France, and the burnt out husk of a supply wagon, a leering skull of a thing with ribs of iron and a grinning mockery replacing the water it used to hold. Elsa descended the horse, and gingerly set Anna down on the ground. The sun was setting, and the clouds were gathering swiftly. The world had been tinted a blood red, stained by the life of dying horses as Apollo's chariot fell to earth.

"We're here Anna, what do I do now?" asked Elsa.

"Take my sword... put it... in the fire. Heat it white-hot."

Anna stared at the fire, the light reflecting off her shimmering eyes. The fire was rising. Elsa took the sheath, and pulled the sword out, cringing at the scraping of its steel against the scabbard. It was howling for blood. She stared at it for a moment, then placed it in the fire. It began to glow, hotter and brighter. First red. Then, it came to a glowing white.

"Chop my arm off, Elsa," said Anna.

Elsa looked at Anna, then looked at the sword.

"Anna... I can't! I can't do this!" said Elsa with a plaintive cry.

"Give me the sword," said Anna.

Anna took the sword in her good hand, and brought it down sharply onto her stump of an other arm. She screamed in pain, and then whimpered softly as the pain shook her body. The heat sizzled at the flesh, charring it a dark black. She lifted the sword, and brought it down again. The chop seared the flesh, and smoke came out. Anna screamed again, and her hand opened, letting the sword drop to the ground. She cried, was crying, and her soft whining cries contrasted harshly against the scarlet sky. Elsa tried to look away, but couldn't. She was staring. Then her fists balled up, and her mouth clenched.

"I'm taking the sword, Anna," she said.

She could do this. She was strong. She had to be strong. She couldn't look away. This was it. She grabbed the sword. She wouldn't pull any punches. She had to drive it through. She lifted the sword. A clean cut. A powerful cut. It had to be done.

The sword came down.

With a final, wailing cry, the sword burned through the last bits of flesh and bone, the scorching heat overcoming the weakness of the body. The fingers and tendrils of ice had been denied, and their carrion feast would not be coming this day. The arm came loose, and was detached. The fire continued its burning.

Elsa pulled the sword away, and then dropped it on the ground. She looked up to the skies, now a dark gray. The rain began to fall, the weeping of Dionysus as the revels came to an end. She kneeled down near her sister once again.

Elsa pulled her sister, pressing their bodies together. Her arms locked into a tight embrace. Anna mumbled something, then closed her eyes. The rain came pouring down. The fire refused to yield, and burned on. Elsa brushed her sister's hair with her hands, ignoring the grime. Anna's hair was smooth and slicked with blood and rainwater. She felt Anna's breath against her neck. These were the small things. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.

There they were, two hearts, beating in unison, under the auspices of an unknown and silent God.

* * *

**END OF PART ONE**


	80. MAN: INTERLUDE: END OF PART ONE

_"__It is the music of a people that are climbing to the light!" - Les Miserables_

_"__In 1750s Arendelle, roughly 165 children would die of smallpox out of every 1000 baptisms... by 1850, life expectancy had more than doubled... GDP had increased astronomically..." - History of the Arendelle Industrial Revolution, Vol I_

_"__The Great Escape of this book is the story of mankind's escaping from deprivation and early death, of how people have managed to make their lives better, and led the way for others to follow." - Angus Deaton, The Great Escape_

_"The press, the machine, the railway, the telegraph are premises whose thousand-year conclusion no one has yet dared to draw." - Friedrich Nietzsche_

_"If I was not a Queen, then God would have seen fit to make an architect. If my mother was not a Queen, then she would seized God by his coattails and become a capitalist." - Elsa II Maria Hohenzollern_

_"Let us don our masks and sing of lies,  
the owl hoots and the ermine cries,  
we'll hurry through o'er the frozen bog  
and I'll kiss you, my love, in the poison smog."  
- Stanza from "The Poison Smog", a traditional love song of 19__th__ and early 20__th__ century Arendelle_

God was dead.

The shattered fragments of him laid all over Europe.

Man does not give up.

Man wants to believe, if he cannot.

When God is dead, build a new God.

One chapter closed, one written with blood.

Soon, another would open, one written with iron.

For now, Europe slept. For the first time in forever, it had peace. The snowflakes dusted the earth lightly, and the slightest tread of feet might disturb them.

Europe dreamed.

It dreamed of shimmering steel towers climbing to fight the sun.

It dreamed of wars, great and terrible, wars that hoped to end all wars but never could.

It dreamed of the reaper cast away at last, and of children sleeping soundly in cribs.

It dreamed of distances conquered and the world made small and cozy.

It dreamed of food, of families that could finally eat of more than ashes and tears.

It dreamed of freedom and tyranny, two sapphic lovers caught in kissing embrace.

It dreamed of unity and death.

It dreamed of monsters that dressed as men, and men that dressed as monsters.

It dreamed of the dead piled high above the heavens, bloated corpses grinning lazily.

It dreamed of poisons deadly quick, poisons quick enough to slay disease and mosquito swarms.

It dreamed of things tiny beyond comprehension, and of splitting the world with fire.

It dreamed of life.

It dreamed of unimaginable prosperity.

It dreamed of iron, iron that could think and move, iron to free man from his chains.

It dreamed of belching smokestacks and rivers that ran with milk, honey, and chemical runoff.

It dreamed of colossi locked against each other.

It dreamed of dancing.

It dreamed that God would be forgiving.

The world had changed. It would never be the same again. The Pandora's box was open.

At the bottom of every Pandora's box is hope.

And Elsa picked up the hammer. God was dead.

It was time to build a new God.

Like a bolt out of the blue, fate steps in and sees you through. When you wish upon a star, your dreams come true.

* * *

**BEGINNING OF INTERLUDE.**


	81. Mother: Interlude

3,700 dead, most of them in rural areas.

300,000 dead, in a circle of death reaching around the Baltic.

Bad things happened without control. Her powers had grown. They would only continue to grow.

The same was true with rule. Every move had to be well-calculated and precise. Her powers, both magical and temporal, were capable of inflicting great harm as well as causing great good. Kill no one if it should not be done. If mercy leads to tragedy, never stay the hand of wrath. Be feared, but be loved as well. Her ice had killed over 1.2 million people in the Napoleonic Wars. However, it was also giving a tangible benefit to the Arendelle economy. 24 vereinsthalers, 19 silbergroschen and 3 pfennig for every man, woman, and child in Arendelle every year from the export of ice. It wasn't distributed that way, of course. It all fed into the state's coffers, part of an ambitious new industrialization plan. If sent to the people, it would greatly assist them. Families could be fed, new clothing could be bought, life could be improved somewhat. Millions and millions of tons of Arendelle ice could be exported every year with almost zero production cost. But give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Build a fish cannery, and you feed his family for generations. She had bigger plans in mind.

The ice money would be the capital injection needed to industrialize Arendelle. Sulfurous acid, caustic soda, sodium sulfide, potash. These would be the future. With factories would come the relocation of the population. Rural parishes would stripped of population and merged into the cities. This would allow the reduction of distant staffs and reallocation of resources. The bureaucracy would be modernized and centralized. For too long, the most distant edges of the realm had failed to yield to the royal yoke. There were Sami tribes out there that had lived in isolation for hundreds of years. But nobody really wanted to be alone, right? Besides, it was for their own good. There was a technique, variolation, that was very expensive, but reduced chances of death tenfold. Rumors were spreading from London of an even better technique to fight smallpox, one involving cows and hot pokers and other such nonsense. With her grasp extended firmly over the country, she could make comprehensive and decisive policy movements. The tax base would widen, and the population would increase.

Elsa continued to pore over her reports. Sven looked over her shoulder, nodding approvingly at times. Kristoff stood to the side, exasperated and half-asleep. A dripping of wax, and then the stamping of the royal seal, and a plan could be set in motion. One wrong move and everyone could die. But Elsa had learned to balance caution and risk. She just had to be careful and focus. Read every report carefully, look for inconsistencies, analyze the data, and propose a plan of action. Her powers could be used to set things in motion, but she refused to use them to maintain things. Construction was acceptable, but she would not be part of the industrial apparatus.

After all, some day she would be gone. She had seen too many dead men to entertain illusions of immortality. When she died, it was imperative that Arendelle live on. She shuffled notes around, and straightened another set of papers.

One of these reports was not right. The quantity could not possibly be correct. Only three foundries in France could turn out that sort of output, and she knew all three. None of them was owned by the company on the paper. Yet it had been stamped with an official seal, albeit one of the old Napoleonic ones, although those had still been in use on other messages from France, and the way in which it was written was completely correct. There was a very clever forger loose in the system. Who could've possibly done such a thing? It could be a palace member, slipping it in directly. The secret police would have to search everyone, and do so quickly. An assassin could be present even now. Whoever slipped such a convincing forgery into her papers was sending a clear and dangerous message. Perhaps it was the bureaucracy. A widespread infection by foreign agents could paralyze the country at any time. Dossiers would be checked, backgrounds would be scanned again. Some of the bureaucrats had been appointed by her father. His vetting system was woefully inadequate. She lowered the report and looked over her desk.

There was a small boy waiting there.

"The French Empire formally requests that Arendelle end its hug embargo and accept our exports of love," said the young Napoleon II, seal of the French Empire in hand.

Elsa stared over, heart confused. She pushed the chair back with her arm, got up, and made a few wooden steps over. She picked her son up and squeezed him tight. Elsa cried.

She had become her father in the end.

* * *

"Can an old soldier still love?" asked Anna.

"Let's find out," said Kristoff.

Anna drew a knife. She cut her own finger, then licked the knife. She savored the taste carefully, eyeing Kristoff hungrily.

"I could kill you, you know. It would be easy. I could... drive the knife into your brain. Take the garotte out, strangle you. Snap that cuddly neck of yours. Shoot you, you would be bleeding out on the floor. It would be easy... so easy," she murmured, planting a kiss on his neck.

"You're a crazy bitch, Anna."

"I am a crazy bitch," said Anna.

Anna began to strut towards Kristoff, hips swaying wide. She pushed him backwards, and he tumbled onto the bed.

"The female wolf... is a bitch. I'm hungry, Kristoff," said Anna.

"I've had practice dealing with wolves. When I was a kid, they'd chase me way up trees and keep me there. I lived."

"You've never met a wolf like me. Now I'm circling your tree," she whispered.

Her hand went low, started to unbutton his pants. Kristoff's big, burly hands wrapped around Anna's waist.

They fucked.

Through the window, young Olaf and snow Olaf were watching.

"Wow, I didn't know carrots could be so big! And so pale too, I thought they were usually orange," said snow Olaf.

"Olaf, I wub you. Show me more cool things!" said the boy Olaf.

"Oh wow, now they're doing the impaling thing. I didn't know you could do that if you had bones."

Years of combat had honed Anna's senses. She could smell the faint musk of unwanted visitors, could feel the vibrations through the air as they walked and talked, could see all around her using the corners of her one remaining eye, could hear the faintest of whispers even with the shattering cacophony of cannons around her. They were being watched. Immediately, her arm shot to a pistol, drew the weapon, and pointed it at the window, smack-dab at where baby Olaf's head was. She blinked twice, made a split-second analysis, and stopped. Kristoff clutched his dick, whining shudders ripping their way through his body.

"Olaf? Oh. Ooooh, you're not supposed to be up this late, what are you doing?" asked Anna.

"Hi mommy!" said baby Olaf.

"Were you watching us?" asked Anna.

"Anna, you should put some clothes aaah... ahhhhhh... on," said Kristoff.

"Yeah, I was watching you play the mommy game!" shouted baby Olaf.

"Oh Olaf... you shouldn't be doing that," said Anna.

"That's... ahhh... right, send... ahhhh... him away quick, before I... arghhh... SVEEEEN. BEFORE I SVEN," said Kristoff, panting heavily.

"You really need to work on your technique, Olaf," said Anna.

"Excuse me?" asked Kristoff. Then his eyes rolled back, and he died the little death, passing out.

"Olaf, never do something like that again," said Anna, getting up from bed and walking over, still in a state of undress.

"Okay!" shouted baby Olaf.

"You see, if you get caught while on reconnaissance, they'll slit your throat," said Anna.

"Or impale you," added snow Olaf helpfully.

"That doesn't sound fun, mommy," said baby Olaf.

"No, it's not. That's why you need to approach from the sides, the rear, or from above. The rear is better than the flanks, and from above is best of all. Then you get the jump on them!"

"Yay! Jumping!"

"Mmhmm, it's just like making chocolate fondue, but with blood instead of chocolate. Also, you don't eat it. That would be kind of silly. Also, you need to use fear."

"Fear?"

"Yes, fear. Fear must be your friend. What happens when you're afraid?"

"I... I make the poo?"

"Yes, you make the poo. What happens when the bad guy gets scared."

Olaf's eyes widened with excitement.

"Do... do they make the poo too, mommy?"

"Uh-huh, that's right! Who's my little genius?"

"I am!"

"That's right, and what does my little genius do while they poo?"

"I dunno."

"You sllliiii..."

"I slit their throats!"

"That's right! Who wants ice cream tomorrow?"

"I do!"

"But you have to tell me what to do next."

"How do I do that?"

"If fear makes them poo, what must you become?"

The boy scratched his head, puzzled. Then the answer came to him.

"I must become fear!"

"What do you fear, Master Olaf?"

"I get really scared when you make dinner."

"You must become fear."

"I will become fear."

"What do you fear, Master Olaf?"

"I fear the fish."

"Now, what are you?"

"I am... I am the Lutefisk!"

"Again."

"I AM THE LUTEFISK!"

"WHO ARE YOU?" screamed Anna.

"I AM LUTEFISK MAN! I AM THE FACE OF FEAR!"

Two weeks later, young Olaf would rappel in on the couple having sex, striking from above with boomerangs made of jellied fish. Anna squealed with delight when it happened. She had a son to be proud of.

And sometimes, late at night, Kristoff would wake up in sweats, staring at the ceiling. He was surrounded by crazy people. His wife was crazy. But she loved him. Such was his life.

* * *

Rapunzel was the picture of a loving mother. She was a bit too permissive, perhaps. She got very excited about the games her daughters played, and often joined them in their coloring sessions. She did everything with them, except when they wanted alone time. The country lived to serve her, but she lived to serve her children. That's not to say they didn't have odd habits.

Eugene walked into the playroom and looked around.

Instantly, three sets of eyes met his, staring back. They were tiny, white, and beady.

"Mother. Is it Reich time now?" asked Elizabeth Christine.

"I shall sing the song of conquest," said baby Gothel, spitting out her pacifier.

"Not yet, mine kinder. We shall wait," said Rapunzel.

Eugene stopped. Of the creepy things Blondie liked to do, this definitely ranked a strong 6/10.

Of course, he could always go back to counting the money with his face on it. So he did.

The children went back to playing.


	82. Missile Crisis: Interlude

The streets of Shaoguan were calm. Everything lay under heaven, and heaven was merciful.

But heaven and the emperor were far, far away, and the hand of the local government was swift and merciless.

The city was awash with muted, bright colors, a bootleg DVD of a city. Tonight, as with every night, Lutefisk Man was on the prowl, his keen eyes sweeping every dark alley and blind road for dastardly rogues and the colorful characters that he called villains.

He still remembered his father's last words to him before the ship sank.

"Son, you really shouldn't listen to your mother so much. Killing is bad."

Killing is bad. It was a motto to live by. Luckily, he could still rough people up. He had to clean up this city.

He squatted over the carved wooden dragon, scoping out the world over the tiled roof. Beside him was his trusty manservant. He had a name, but Lutefisk Man would be damned if he could pronounce it, so he was just his loyal sidekick-China Man.

"伱为什么天天带我出来？"asked the China Man.

"You know why, China Man. Because MY PAREENNTTTSSS ARE DEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAD."

"哎呀！你真得是笨蛋。"

"I know. I miss them too."

Together, they fought crime and ate weird meat.

A piercing scream shattered the Oriental calm, and Lutefisk Man tensed. It was time to spring into action. China Man followed him. He jumped rooftop to rooftop, grappling his way along. He was as agile as the flying fish, and as deadly as the cod at full power. No one could stop him in his pursuit of justice. China Man shuffled behind him, taking the roads like a normal person.

Lutefisk Man was impressively well-armed, thanks to the constant efforts of his dearly-deceased mother. He had all the best gadgets an 1830s vigilante could buy, and his body was wiry and powerful from a lifetime of physical conditioning. He was tall and imposing, the genetic legacy of two parents well larger than the average. He had been trained to fight in ways both clean and dirty. China Man was of average height for a Chinaman at the time, which is to say not tall at all. He wasn't a very good fighter, but he could do laundry and make a mean shrimp dumpling.

He arrived on the scene of the crime, and gasped audibly. One could practically see the garbled captions fill the air as the action intensified. It was his archnemesis, the Jerker, foe of all non-preserved meat products everywhere. The Jerker raised a puppy in the air. Lutefisk Man gasped again. With a flick of his wrist, the Jerker transmuted the puppy into a bag of dog jerky. That fiend!

They began a poorly lip-synced dialogue.

"Lutefisk Man... it's nice to... MEAT YOU again. Hwek hwek hwek!" said the Jerker.

"This is no laughing matter, you just jerkied that puppy! Now we must kung fu fight!" replied Lutefisk Man.

"So now we have a BEEF? Hwek hwek hwek. Come on then, boy, unless you're CHICKEN. I'll hang you on the RACK to DRY. HWEK HWEK HWEK," replied the Jerker.

Lutefisk Man ran towards the Jerker, and they began to fight. The Jerker threw a bag of that little stuff that always comes in the bags of jerky, the deoxidants, and it hit Lutefisk Man in the face, bursting into a tiny cloud. Luckily, Lutefisk Man had a can of air in his utility belt, and a gas mask, and also a de-jerkifier, and he was able to save himself in the nick of time. Then Lutefisk Man threw a punch that slammed into the Jerker with a mighty ZONK. The Jerker smiled, and punched back. KAPOW. WHAM! ZAM! KLUNK! KAPOW! OUCH! SWISH! SWOOSH! KERPLOP!

Lutefisk Man reeled back. The punches didn't hurt that much, since the Jerker was malnourished and had very skinny arms. But the sound effects were deafening to his highly sensitive fish ears. The Jerker walked over and put his foot on Lutefisk Man's chest, a jerky eating grin plastered across his face.

"Say GOOD BUY, because I'm about to BAG ME SOME FISH JERKY!"

"THAT'S NOT A PUN!"

"Well, I had a pun there, it still counts."

"No, it's a general shopping related one, it could be used by any of my rogues gallery!"

Just then, China Man walked into the building. China Man smacked his face with his palm in exasperation. This happened every night without fail. Both Lutefisk Man and the Jerker stared at him. China Man walked up. The pair continued staring. China Man mumbled something under his breath, took a barbeque pork bun out of his pocket, and stuffed it into Lutefisk Man's mouth.

"Gadzooks, I feel strong!" shouted Lutefisk Man, as he sprang to his feet.

The Jerker screamed hideously as he fell backwards into the meat packing machine. He was probably dead, but he'd be back by next week. This happened every once in a while. It was a nice excuse for Lutefisk Man to change his costume too. Lutefisk Man was getting tired of his Lutenipples.

Lutefisk Man walked outside, into the sharp air of the night. Have you ever wanted to have sex with a can of beans? I have. There, standing in the moonlight, was Canwoman, another one of Lutefisk's many enemies. Seriously, many, many enemies. Who really needs that many? Anyways, she wasn't just an enemy. She was also a love-interest/enemy/flirt-robot/slutty can burglar. She stole cans from the rich to give to herself, but since there weren't many cans in Shaoguan, she stole the few ones there as sensually as she could, and sometimes teamed up with Lutefisk Man to fight different people. It was complicated, probably.

Also, she was dressed like a can. Like a big old tin can. It was labeled "Hot Stuff". So yeah.

Lutefisk Man was the can opener. Also, insert a metaphor for penis. Pick your favorite. I know you have one.

They made love under the moon while China Man watched. China Man liked to watch. He watched a lot.

Then Lutefisk Man's keen nose smelled crime. Unfortunately, they had not yet made love long enough to meet minimum union quotas. I forgot to mention there was a union for this sort of thing. It's very complicated, you know? Got a lot of estimates and subcontractors and tiny rules. Can't break them, or Big Guang will break your fingers. So Canwoman latched onto Lutefisk Man, like a lamprey onto an female anglerfish, if the lamprey was a male anglerfish that was really a woman shaped like a can, and also if that male anglerfish didn't wither into a sperm tube permanently, but instead only for about three minutes. If that's hard to see, imagine a U-boat torpedoing the Lusitania while King Triton watches ESPN. It's like that. Trust me.

Anyways, Lutefisk Man arrived on the scene, Canwoman still sucking on his face. There was a man, stuck in an opium stupor. What's more, he was a dealer himself! Such a ruffian had to be roughed up so that he learned the error of his ways.

The man, who had a family surname of Kang, blinked. There was a foreign devil there, and things had suddenly gone very strange. As the man beat the tar out of him, he resolved to never take opium again, as it clearly had affected his mind. Furthermore, this was the end to his life of crime. Going clean meant going clean in everything, or else the life would pull him back in.

Forty years later, Lutefisk Man was an old man. His had been a long and fulfilling one. He had between seven and thirty-two children, depending on the day. His Lutefamily was loving and large, and they all fought crime, each in more ridiculous costumes than the others. He had been through many an adventure. There was even the time he was dead, and China Man became Lutefisk Man. Also, there was the time he was dead again, and there was a robot Lutefisk Man, and a cyborg Lutefisk Man, and a bunch of other Lutefisk Men, and also there was a red one and a blue one? It was weird, real weird. In fact, it may have just been a food-poisoning related hallucination.

Anyways, it was about then a Coronan steamer pulled into China, Anna Hohenzollern and her husband Kristoff having come along to discuss the resolution of the Margary affair.

They stumbled into each other. Turns out, he could've found out his parents weren't dead if he had only kept up with the newspapers. It was a very awkward meeting for everyone, especially Kristoff.

Especially Kristoff.

* * *

Later that week, Mr. Kang would be found dead in the streets, his flesh carefully flayed in scales from his body. His employers had not been pleased, and had given him the death from a thousand cuts.

The killing of a little man can make a big difference.

Nearly a hundred years later, a crisis was brewing in Nationalist China. They had just developed nuclear weapons.

There were three Chinas where there should only be one. Chang Kai-Shek assigned one of his generals, Fa Xibo, to prepare an attack against the Manchurian Empire and Red China. It was time to restore balance and seize the Mandate of Heaven in full. There could only be one China!

_The soldiers lie in wait. The machinery whizzes and buzzes, lights slowly flickering to life. A red bulb flashes. The next few come to life in a line. The test was about to begin._

Unfortunately, the USSR did not see it that way. Communist China was a useful puppet and buffer state, even if Mao was getting a bit too uppity for his position. If the capitalists could take China in whole, it would upset the power balance of the whole region. The USSR placed soldiers on the Chinese border.

_Suddenly, a flash like a thousand weeping stars. It is a fire that man had no right to wield. But man does not live by privileges and rights. It steals fire from the gods, and laughs at the mockery. The soldiers don their gas masks._

Fa Xibo went to the family altar to pray. It was merely tradition. The fire of a dragon was no longer necessary when the Chinese could call upon nuclear fire. He prayed to have the strength of his illustrious ancestors, the strength to bring down a modern horde of Huns.

_Horses rode towards the mushroom cloud. Soldiers dashed forward, took up positions. They sprayed their AK-47s to suppress the enemy, supporting their allies as they maneuvered the field. Movements must be fast and decisive, whether the weapon is used by you or your enemy._

Phones rang in Washington. They had to work with their allies, but if the Soviets made a move, it could all be over. Kennedy sat uneasily in the Oval Office.

The Doomsday Clock was one minute to midnight.

And the silent prayers of the many hoped to God that there would be a day's reprieve.

* * *

**Author Notes:** Some of you might be a little confused. What this little exchanges means is that Wild Fox Kang is never born. Without Kang's ambition and drive, Dowager Empress Cixi is able to push through more reforms, and dies slightly later, having not suffered health complications brought on by the guilt of murdering her son. This allows China to appear stronger and resist foreign invasion a while longer. Without Kang actively jockeying for power and working with the Japanese, the Qing Dynasty lives a bit longer. But the Japanese are powerful and motivated. Even in modern China, corruption is endemic. As such, the reforms look very good on paper, but fail to be adequate in reality, as corrupt officials siphon away money. The Qing Dynasty dissolves anyways, the weight of the system too heavy to bear for any Emperor insufficiently strong. Even the reforms are unable to save it. However, it dissolves much later. The nation is partitioned between the Manchurian Empire, Red China, and White China. Chang Kai-Shek is almost able to crush the Red Chinese, when the Americans issue their infamous Halt Order. Manchuria slips away from Japan, becoming fully independent followng WWII. Fortunately for Chang, in this timeline he has a stronger position to fall back to, and he is able to hold much of China, albeit at great cost. After the civil war, he begins his White Terror and consolidates power. Eventually, his men are able to develop their own nuclear weapons. The stage is now set for the missile crisis, with the Nationalists clamoring eagerly for the restoration of China as it should be.


	83. Man of Destiny: Interlude

"_It was my honor and privilege to serve such a man." - Marshal Anna Hohenzollern_

Whisper into the wind, and listen to what it whispers back.

Napoleon looked at France with tear-filled eyes. He had to travel with a retinue. It was the only way for a man of his imperial dignity.

The roads were soggy with mud, and his clothes dirtied with every day in flight.

There was still a chance, if Napoleon could seize it. It would have to be done wholeheartedly, but it could be done. There were still ships enough to break the British blockade, albeit with great risk. The fastest ship of the fleet would carry the Emperor to safety, while the others engaged the British ships. Napoleon could slip out into the wide, blue sea, and no one would be able to find him. The Americans still loved him. In America, he could find a renewed calm. There was still hope.

But Napoleon was tired, and his hopes had been dashed too many times. He could reinvent himself, could cast everything aside and roll the dice once more, but he would lose everything he had. Even these rags of Empire were now cherished things, though rags they were. If he left Europe now, he would never be able to return. He would never see his son again. He would never murmur sweet serenades to the grave of his Josephine.

And so he hesitated, and his chance was lost.

A fat man with receding hair and broken English. That is what the English found, as Napoleon threw himself at their mercy. Napoleon was tried, sent to St. Helena, and died on British poison.

Love, of course, love.

Love is a force that's powerful and strange.

Love means putting someone else's needs above your own.

Those loyal to Napoleon remembered him. One by one, they cast their legacies into the void. Achievement after achievement faded from their names and was heaped onto Napoleon. It was a concerted act of sacrifice, and not a man would break that solemn covenant. It was Napoleon and his followers, then Napoleon and a few, then finally, Napoleon alone. Napoleon was dead. But the Man of Destiny lived on, fed by the legend. The Man of Destiny had single-handedly brought Europe low, had single-handedly forged the rule of law, had single-handedly saved the French from starvation. History would not remember the names of those who followed Napoleon, except in brief passing.

But they would remember the Man of Destiny.

His followers had sacrificed their legacies. In exchange, the Man of Destiny had become immortal.

In the coming years, the Man of Destiny would loom larger and larger.

Had there ever been an act of love so true?

Napoleon was dead. The Man of Destiny lived.

He had been saved by not one, not two, but a great multitude of acts of true love.

Love means putting someone else's needs above your own.

The Bourbon monarchy would fall, never to rise again, but the French would not keep their newfound freedom.

They loved Napoleon far too much for that.

And so, the dead living hand of the Man of Destiny delivered the French Empire to his son at last.


	84. Measure of a Man: Interlude

The pitter patter of the rain splashed against the cobbled streets. Anna followed the coffin along, steady and calm in her pace. She never cried anymore. It was unbecoming for someone of her status and experience. Still, it seemed that her umbrella was fraying, or perhaps the rain drops were too aggressive. The rain fell on through.

The Berliner Dom stood, waiting to receive yet another one of its lost daughters. The cathedral was quite grand and was sometimes called the Protestant St. Peter's. Elsa's father and mother had not been interred in the crypt, a grim emptiness breaking the rest of those hallowed halls. The church was guarded by rows of golden angels. The sky was crying, so they were crying. Soft faces were held by equally soft golden hands. In a way, the church was the family itself. It had first been acknowledged as the family first began its slow rise to power, shortly after they transferred their seat of power to Berlin. With wealth came reconstruction, and the first cathedral replaced the church. It had been renovated with the conversion to Protestantism. The church had changed itself, just as the horrors of war transformed Prussia-Brandenburg into Corona. When Frederick the Great took power and made his miracle, the cathedral again remade itself, the force of that saintly blessing driving it into a new form. Now, it had been rebuilt again, following damage in the Napoleonic Wars. Each time, the increased power and prosperity of Corona had made it larger and ever more beautiful. Two more remakings laid in its future, one forged with the steel of empire, and the other with nuclear fire.

Tens of thousands had been at the first ceremony, an eager throng mobbing around the coffin. Most of them just wanted one last glimpse of the Queen that had done so much for Arendelle. Gas masks were curiously absent from the crowd. A bit of lung damage was more than a fair price for being able to see the Queen with true, genuine eyes, and not the cruel filter of the lens. Her corpse laid there, hands folded elegantly. It was ice, pure and clear. The facets of the body glimmered a thousand ways in the chemical light, a diamond shining bright. Anna had watched silently. As the ceremony ended, she and a few Arendelle royal guards slid the lid closed on the wrought-iron casket. The cannons sounded in salute, and they carried the coffin to a steamer waiting at the docks.

Dozens of sarcophagi stood watchful on the church floor. Great rulers now rested in silent effigy. Elsa's own parents were missing, the allocated space suspiciously bare. There Elsa was laid to rest, in conspicuous emptiness.

They had said Queen Elsa was good in the eulogy.

But by what measure do we gauge goodness? In the Napoleonic Wars alone, Elsa had killed over 1.2 million people. And yet, is each of those redeemed by saving a life? What do we call the saving of a life? Its continuation where it might otherwise be cut short? Then Elsa had redeemed herself ten times over. Her firm hand destroyed the wretched specter of smallpox. Life expectancy at birth had more than doubled during her rule. Before her, families had to eat ashes and tears. The factories brought wealth to Arendelle, and wealth brought food. The crying men had once been crying boys who had felt the clawing emptiness of hunger, and knew how the Queen had sent it away forever. And these gentle ambrosial tears would echo far beyond humble Arendelle. When her wild, and quite frankly, unfounded, assumptions had come true, and the sanitation plans had worked, the model would be imitated. Country after country took up arms and slew the beast of disease and the horrors of death. Yet the inventions of war spurred to damned fruition by her presence would also deal more than their fair share of suffering. The Maxim Gun would be the fist that crushed Africa. Chemical weapons would be a cloak falling over the innocent trenches of WWI. Incendiaries would burn through the world, insatiable in their loving vengeance.

In the end, it is not so easy to say who is good. What sort of a moral calculus can be done, or should be done? What is the value of a life? What is the measure of utility?

What is the measure of a man? When the account of their life must be given, who can answer?

We cannot say that Queen Elsa was good.

We can say, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she was Great.

1849. Requiescat in pace.

Her sister would not join her in death. The open burial was reserved for those who had reigned, and Anna and her family would be buried in more humble grounds below the church floor. The marble slabs were placed over the entrance to the underworld, and then silence resumed its regency. The church would always welcome its children back home. A lifetime of service would always be rewarded with a good rest.

1884. Requiescat in pace.

Born with the dawning of a new age of liberty, dead with the Scramble for Africa. Anna had lived to age 100, surviving her sister by three and half decades, and outliving her own husband by five. She had bore witness to an entire century of history. It was a time span as long as the one separating the founding of Pennsylvania and the American Revolution. It was as long as the distance between the First World War and Web 2.0. It was the rise and the fall of the Judio-Claudians of long dead Rome. She had seen Arendelle wreathed in snow and whispering fjords. She had seen Arendelle encircled by railroads, sky dark yellow with industrial smog, and seas filled with the luminescent gloss of chemical runoff. She had seen the first inklings of the wild plan, the fulfillment of it and the founding of Bjorgman Water, and then the spread to new lands, as untold millions poured in the family coffers, the profits of a massive bottled water boom. She had seen the skies clear again, as a new generation of chemists refined the methods of their fathers, and restored the natural beauty of the world using hard-won efficiency. But what she wanted to see most, she had not had for very long. As quiet death took the war-scarred woman, she glimpsed into the darkness and saw a snowman taking shape.

The pallbearers laid the coffin at its final resting place. Though Anna's remains could not join those of her sister, they had given her the courtesy of lying directly below Elsa's sarcophagus.

A man of snow and a man who was no man at all watched. It was the least they could do for the last family that would ever know them. The funeral procession melted away in the cold October rain. The man of snow climbed atop his reindeer steed, and they left Berlin, never to return. Nary a trace was left of the two, and the last remnants of a bygone age faded into the sands of time, forgotten even by history.


	85. Monarchy: Interlude

A nation is like a body. It has its own parts, working in unison to guide itself towards prosperity.

It has a head.

Elsa stumbled inside, groggy with exhaustion. As soon as the door slammed behind her, and one can sure it slammed, with the force Elsa threw it back with, her hands shot up to her face, and she ripped the stultifyingly small gas mask from her face, letting the air caress her skin. She ripped the bun of her hair open, letting it fall loose into a braid. She wiped the matted thick sweat from her brow and sighed. She had an acid rain warning to issue.

Her daughter was waiting there. Great, more business to take care of. Did she really just think that? Well, it was true. The day had already been far too long, and she had a warning to issue. She composed herself, drew herself up straight, and nodded to her spawn. She just thought of her beloved daughter and heir as a spawn. Great. Wonderful.

"Mother? I'd like to ask your permission... to marry Nicky," said Elsa Maria.

"You want to marry Nicholas," said Elsa flatly.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I know that I want to spend the rest of my life with him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Do you know his foot size? Favorite food? Hobbies? Family history? How he lives? How he dresses?"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. I do my research, mother. He's absolutely charming."

"He's a stick-in-the-mud who pretends to be a two-bit general on a one-bit horse."

"The way you can see him just barely crack the hint of a smile when the men drill in the square. Oh, he gets so passionate. And yet, when he's alone, he's just this stumbling mess, and I just want to hold him and squeeze. I really can't describe it."

"I can. He hides his true feelings, he's hateful, and he's awkward, and these things are probably all products of his stupidity. Because he's stupid. Alex has two stupid brothers."

"Mother!"

"What about when he puts a pistol up to your heart... and shoots?"

"Mother? I-I d-d-don't..."

Elsa snapped her fingers, and an ice spike burst out of the wall. She snapped them again, and more spikes came out from the floor. One shot towards Elsa Maria's neck, and slowly grew larger.

"It's very VERY **VERY **easy to kill someone. All kings do it," said Elsa.

"Please, stop! Please!"

"What do you even know about him?"

"He would never hurt me! Stop! He's a prince, he's noble."

"A prince? A description practically synonymous with sociopathy. If that was what I had to do, I could kill you right now, and I wouldn't even blink."

Elsa's daughter was sobbing, her eyes darting quickly around, scanning the ice around her. The ice spike almost pressed against her neck now.

"I love him! Mom, I love him!" screamed Elsa Maria.

Elsa released her grip, and the ice spikes faded into dust. The Queen fell back onto a wall, and leaned there, hands cradled over her face.

"I used to think these powers were a curse. I was stupid. Every year, the ice brings in almost 25 vereinsthaler for every citizen of Arendelle," said Elsa.

"Mother? I don't understand," replied her daughter.

"The ice wasn't the curse. If I was a nobody, I could just frolic in the mountains all day. No one would care. It would be easy. Make ice sculptures everywhere, dance a little. Sing songs. Play with the woodland creatures. Being a princess, that's the real curse. Who could ever want to be a princess?"

"Are you okay?"

"Okay? Okay? I almost killed you," hissed Elsa, teeth grinding against each other.

"You would never hurt me."

"How do you know? I've hurt a lot of people. Innocent people. Didn't save them."

Elsa slumped into a tiny ball, and stared over at the wall carvings.

"I used to think my dad was afraid of me. He wasn't afraid of me, he was afraid for me. I'm a terrible mother. All those diplomats and their smiling faces, and they can smell weakness. Conceal, don't feel. It wasn't about the powers. Nothing's changed."

Her daughter walked over, sat down next to her. She put her hand on her shoulder.

"I couldn't ever see my sister, but dad still stopped by the room. He would try to play with me or help me with whatever problems I had, but he would never smile, and I never could understand why. I understand now. I wish I didn't. You look... like mom. I'm rambling just like Anna does. How ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous."

"Do you love him?"

"With all my heart."

"I'll tell Alexander. Constantine can be heir. It's not like either of them is man enough for the crown anyways. What's one buffoon compared to another?"

"Thank you."

"Please don't leave me. I know I'm awful, and terrible, and absolutely horrid, but... I don't want be alone."

"You're not terrible. A terrible mother wouldn't read a bedtime story to me and Nappy every night, even when there was a lot of work. A terrible mother wouldn't know my favorite food, or how I take my cocoa. She wouldn't know what books I liked or who my favorite painter is."

"I almost killed you."

"No, you didn't. The tip of that spike was too blunt, and the texture indicated it was full of bubbles and structural weaknesses. Besides, you didn't adequately block my escape routes. Plus, the ice you made is naturally very weak, and I wear steel-toed boots."

"That's very observant."

"I learned from the best, Mom. I learned from the best."

* * *

It has hands.

"Linda! How's the coffee?"

"Same as usual. Shit."

Linda was a dumpy looking woman, with short hair and short height. Her dull brown eyes complemented her listless, stringy brown hair nicely. Karl was fat and jowly, his gut jiggling every time he took a step. He had a smile that could charm a dead zebra, and a handshake that was as soft and weak as flan. Sometimes he didn't shave, and a scraggly yellow soul patch would sputter onto his double chin. He was balding, and his comb-over didn't hide the fact. If anything, it made it worse.

"How are the kids, Linda?" asked Karl.

"Same as usual. They don't visit, they don't write, they don't care. Yours?" replied Linda.

"Oh, you know. Still young and innocent. Sarah wants to go into the business when she grows up. It's adorable, Daddy's little pumpkin always wants to please. She made me a drawing. It's nice," said Karl.

"Is it? Well, one day she'll be a bitter old bitch screaming about how much she hates you."

"I hope not. Do we have any more of those little jam cakes?"

"Check the buffet table."

Karl walked over to the table. There were many people there. Some were awkwardly standing to the side, hands in their pockets. Others were striking up little conversations about little subjects. Still others were drinking raucously, their uproarious laughter occasionally drowning out people's small talk. Small groups were clustered around various party games. Karl picked up a few jam cakes, casually checked for poisons, and shoved one in his maw, chewing with his mouth open.

The door opened, and all eyes immediately shot to it, while all hands went to weapons. Then, some internal relief, although hands were still kept ready. It was just Old Tim. He shuffled in, adjusted his spectacles, and took a seat. His shaky hands palmed through the letters he had, occasionally going back to his face to adjust his glasses. After a minute, he found the letter he was looking for. He raised it in the air, and everyone saw the seal of the crocus and the stamp of the skull. Lots were drawn. Karl lost. He toasted everyone at the office party, took a stiff drink, ate the letter, got his anniversary paperweight from the director, then got his coat and hat. He walked out into the chill night.

He met his mark by the docks. He strangled him, then clubbed in the skull with his paperweight, and ripped out the teeth. He would dispose of the teeth later. He cleaned off the paperweight. He whistled. He liked to whistle while he worked. He dragged the corpse away, chopped it up, and dissolved it. He washed his hands. Cleanliness was next to godliness. He went home. He cooked some risengryn grod. His wife loved it when he cooked. They kissed. He tucked his daughter in, read her a story about a princess of the Holy Roman Empire, a Wittelsbach prince, and some dwarves. He washed the dishes. He went to bed. Today had been a good day. Tomorrow wouldn't be such a great day. A mountain of paperwork would be waiting for him. That was the worst part of an assassination, the paperwork.

Still, it had been a good party. Very pleasant. It had been another successful year in the secret police.

* * *

It had legs.

Two workmen were laying pipes. They had a lot of pipe to lay. Bjorgman Water was opening up service to a new city, and that meant pipes had to go straight from the spring way in the mountains down to the houses in the city. That was a lot of pipe, and the pipe was heavy.

It was silly, really. None of the scientific literature suggested that water near the source would be any fresher or better than water downstream. It would be far more economical and far easier to simply pump water from the river once it entered the city. There was not a smidgen of evidence to encourage the idea. The money would be far better spent preventing miasma from forming. The air was already thick with smog, and many learned men were sure that this encouraged the creation of bad air. The Queen, however, insisted on the project, and was bankrolling it with taxpayer money. Normally, such a thing might elicit grumbling and peasant unrest. It did bring about the grumbles, but the people were willing to accept it. The Queen had already done so much for them, and most families had never been as rich as they were now. The factories had turned paupers into playboys, and beggars into builders. Meat, vegetables, and bread at every meal, not just for special occasions. That was especially significant considering how much food Arendelle had to import. So the people put up with Queen Elsa's mad spring water plan. Who knows? Maybe it did taste better from the source.

One of the workmen stopped to take a break. His lungs were burning with exertion, and he had to wipe sweat away. He leaned against a pipe segment. Then he stumbled back in shock, as the pipe began to shift. He turned around and watched in horror as the pipe rolled away, slamming into a distant tree.

It had been easier when they were constructing the aqueduct sections of the waterway. Pipes were a pain in the ass.

He looked at his fellow workman. They made a silent agreement.

One of the pipes was defective and unusable. That was the long and the short of it. It would have to be replaced. It was most certainly not accidentally damaged.

So the project went on.

A government is like a body. This government was like a highly dysfunctional one. However, it was also reasonably close to the best possible one.

The medieval government had been dysfunctional. Elsa's government was dysfunctional. Rapunzel's government would be dysfunctional. The Council of the Norwegian Soviets would be dysfunctional. The Maoist government would be dysfunctional. The Gang of Three's government would be dysfunctional. The post-Cold War government would be dysfunctional.

And yet, time and time again, order would rise up out of chaos. No matter what, a government would always form and take hold. There would be a hand there to stop some abuses and crimes, and commit others.

Governments are not born for the sake of oppression or incompetence. People need stability, order, and banality in their lives. A boring life is a safe one. When there is a need, it will be filled. Such is simply the human way.


	86. Maldonia: Interlude

Nobility was all show and bluster.

Robert Maldon did not look like a showman. A large, thick coat was draped over his thick soldiers. His eyes had the glassy quality of a man who had seen so much. His nose was large and bulbous, meaty and crude. His hair was short and hugged his head tightly. His large square jaw was usually framed with a scowl. It was a rare occasion to see him without one of his comically large cigars. He was short and squat, possessing a robust, stout body. Over the course of the Indian conquests, he would gain a scar over his eye. It wouldn't bother him. How might one describe such a man? Warrior? General? Tactical genius?

His performance in India would prove all these things true. But that was not his true character.

He was an excellent showman precisely because he did not look like one.

He used the symbol of the bear prominently. It was a good symbol. Bears were strong, dependable, fierce, and willing to die to protect their families. His men would chant his message, Ursa's Cardinal Creed. He was well aware that his men would see him as the Creed. He was counting on it.

His foes were many, and their resistance unending.

His men carried standards adorned with eagles. The resemblance to both Rome and Napoleon was intentional. His message was clear: he was to set up an empire that would be the stuff of legends. Even if he failed, the world would fear him.

On the surface, his strategy appeared to be a conventional one, sound and uninventive. He sieged cities, confronted enemy armies, scorched some earth and left other bits alone. Of course, that wasn't his real strategy. He had a European friend, a very white one, who was leading various untouchables and other low castes as a rebel army. The peasants would see this strange white man as a foreign liberator from their swarthy oppressors. The native overlords would see it as yet another foreign incursion to be crushed, a proponent of those new wicked European ideas that would destroy all virtue and goodness. It was neither, of course. Puppets weren't much of anything. Multiple armies gave him great freedom and mobility, and no one would ever pin it on him.

Even his tactics smelt of deceit, although few would ever notice. His favorite stratagem was to suddenly pull massive forces out of nowhere, placing them right behind enemy lines and annihilating them in the chaos. Loyal men would be smuggled into the local population, and reconstitute as full units when the time came. It was a useful ploy of his own invention. He built a massive artillery piece, the Eye of India, and used it for terror reasons. It did not do much damage, but the sound and sight of it was enough to strike men dumb.

He would marry into the Indian Bourbons, founding the House of Maldon-Bourbon. His wife was useful. And over the years, Robert would grow to appreciate that. He would notice how she never complained, never listened in, never bothered learning what he really did. She never asked to cuddle, never asked for gifts. She was always subservient, humble, and quiet. He would acknowledge that. Was that love? Maybe.

Some of his enemies were creatures of the land. They could command armies, inspire men, rally their forces. They were skilled in tactics and strategy. These soldiers would put up a good fight in the field. Hot was their blood. Others were creatures of the sea. Their words flowed like water, effortlessly and with great force and mass. They swished about, moving carelessly and quickly from one social event to the next. They could lie to you without blinking, and steal from you without thinking. Cold was their blood. And Maldon? Maldon slipped between these worlds without the slightest bit of difficulty. He was amphibian. Some might call this dishonorable and slimy behavior. Maldon preferred to think of it as mucus.

Nabob. It's a funny word for plunderer. Across India, citizen-adventurers were making their fortunes. With the barest scrapings of manpower and a dream, they would crush ancient empires and steal their riches. Of course, Maldon was also one of those vultures circling around the Indian carcass. There were many of those men, all forged imperfectly from Clive's mold. The difference between the nabob and Maldon was competence. In the end, that would make all the difference. He would gut them.

Of course, he would also cultivate a reputation for invulnerability along the way. Again and again, he would clash indecisively with the rebel army. Shots would fly by him, cannons would be aimed at him harmlessly, and charges and fire would go against him dozens of times, only to be ineffective at every turn. No matter what, he lived. Horses were shot out from under him, and he would live. Grazing wound after grazing wound, but nothing that could ever seriously harm him. He would stand in the line of fire many times, and emerge unscathed each time. He stood like a stone statue, completely unperturbed by the bloody warfare all about him. It was amazing the things you could do with friends on the other side.

He had been but a tadpole when he had seen the map of India unfurl, and yet it had stuck in his imagination. He envisioned himself swimming the ancient Indus and Ganges, spawning an empire to stand the test of time.

To call India a subcontinent is accurate, but in a way, demeaning. It is easy to imagine it as one country, just another in a panoply of nations. However, the population of a continent is packed into this landmass, a landmass only a third as large as the United States. The various kingdoms that dotted the map, though tiny in size, were easily the equal of any European country in manpower. Conquering India is not the same as conquering a nation. It is an act comparable to conquering a continent, an act that demands the subjugation of a score of arrogant princelings and ancient realms. The Marathan Empire was more confederacy than united nation-state. If you wish to take on a challenge, see who benefits from the status quo, and know that they must be defeated.

Robert Maldon had many men to defeat.

There was Maratha and its massive empire. There was the British East India Company and its Mughal puppets. There was the Nizam of Hyberabad, which counted itself as one of Britain's friends. There was Portugal and its stubborn foothold on the subcontinent. There was tiny but intransigent Oudh. For Maldon to win his dream, he would have to destroy them all.

Destroy them he would. He would start with an army of merely 10000, a miniscule sum. By the end of the conquests, more than 6 million would follow his banner, one of the largest armies to ever touch the face of planet Earth. As he grew, he reorganized the governments he conquered into a new, European-style system, one that would allow him to tap as much manpower proportionally as the Europeans could. It was a stunning amount of force, to say the least.

Liberator? Playboy? Warlord? Merchant? Builder? Savior? Demon? He was whatever you wanted him to be, and he played all roles convincingly.

After all, he was a showman at heart.

When all his enemies laid in ruin before his feet, he would not call himself Emperor. He allowed himself only the humble title of Lord Castellan. If the people chose to offer him Imperial Dignity, he would accept it, and they would. But he was a humble and unambitious man.

Maldonia would be born after only two decades of war. In only two decades, Robert Maldon would do something the East India company couldn't in several. Thus, Maldonia was created, one of the most oppressive, tyrannical regimes to ever grace the Indian subcontinent.

There would be no prince appearing if you kissed this frog. Just a humble Lord Castellan.


	87. Mediatization: Interlude

Again and again, he found himself reminiscing. In a way, it had been the climax of his life. Now, more than ever, as he looked upon that vile idiot's face, he yearned for it.

* * *

The air of Versailles had been slightly moist, but pleasant. He had sneezed a few times. It was entirely possible that he was getting ill. You could never sure with the French climate, it was a detestable thing. It was most certainly possible that he would catch sickness and die in this wretched land.

That morning, he had eaten deviled eggs for breakfast. They were a marvelous little thing. The juicy white flesh of the egg was so pure and clean on the outside, and yet the insides were always scooped hollow and replaced. Sweet, sour, savory, you could put anything inside there, and it would still look like an egg, would still be called an egg. Was it still an egg? Of course it was-that was the trick of it. Nobody really cared if you replaced the contents wholesale.

Earlier that month, he had screamed and pouted at her. They had disagreed over something or other, he couldn't even remember what. She had said no. So he scowled, he cried a few crocodile tears. He had beat his chest, stared out the window, then turned back. Raged a bit, raged against any group that he could pull to mind at the time. She had frowned, looked sheepishly at the floor. He had stomped on the floor, stamped his feet. Then he stared deep into her eyes and insinuated that she did not appreciate him. She did not appreciate the chancellor that had done so much for him. He could leave, he could easily leave! Heaven knows he had already done work far beyond that expected from any man! She, she could sleep in the doghouse. He screamed that she didn't love him! And so Rapunzel had relented, and they had hugged, and then she cracked open a bottle of vodka and then they drank. He had whimpered a few murmurs of her being far too good for him, and she steadfastly rejected such claims. Then she left, and he rode home. He had sniffed the blankets and thought to himself-this, this was what power was. He had the power. The Queen was wrapped around his finger.

The King walked on by. He was a pleasant enough sort, even if his head had never been set straight for rule. He was useful, though, very useful. He could charm a foreign dignitary with his rugged good looks and anecdotes, and the people loved those tired old rags of a boy who rose to be King, who saved their beloved Queen from imprisonment in a tower. Nevermind that the world was a bit more complicated than that. A happy ending a day kept the revolutionaries away.

The choice of the Hall of Mirrors could be seen as simply the gift of a loyal son-in-law to his mother-in-law. It sent a message to the world. Corona was the big dog of Europe, and it could afford a coronation in the very seat of power of another Empire, and one of the Great Powers at that. Europe worked by its whims. Only an implication, but a powerful one. Let the other powers squabble over Africa and Asia. Let them go on fool colonial adventures. Corona's map of Africa lay in Europe.

They had piled into the Hall of Mirrors. The various lords of Corona had stood before Rapunzel. They drew their swords and swore eternal loyalty to the Sun Crown. He had walked forward with the crown, passing through the throng of nobility, had knelt before his Queen. She took the imperial crown from him, and crowned herself using her authority as God's representative on Earth.

Later, he had been wandering outside, trying to keep his mind off his cough. He had spotted Rapunzel.

She was wearing a ridiculous fake mustache and beard.

"Oh, look at me! I'm Karl Marx! I've got stupid hair! Look at my stupid face! Nyeh, nyeh, nyeh! Blah blah proles, blah blah socialism! Look at how smart I am!" said Rapunzel.

She blew a raspberry.

"Blondie, what are you doing?" asked Eugene.

"Blondie? Who's this... blondie? There is only Marx! The state will soon wither away, like my tiny dick!"

"Riiiiight. Does the smolder still work on Mr. Marx?"

"Of course it does because I'm a big gay dumbie."

"I see. Having fun, Karl?" asked Eugene.

"Government is a monopoly on violence? More like government is a monopoly on fun!"

His mind wandered again.

* * *

The wedding, the official one, was a solemn and weighty event, with foreign dignitaries from all sorts of nations attending, and a mixture of pomp and reserve that made things grand but not overbearing.

This was not true of the party the night before. They had to have one. It was an ancient and noble tradition. If the pots were not broken, then evil spirits and bad omens would plague the newlyweds. Of course, if they were going to have this pot-breaking party, then it had to be done right.

Napoleon II did not like the idea much. He would rather have a small ceremony and little fuss, like the wedding of his sister. Effort should be focused on more important things, like ambitious conquests and civil works. Rapunzel, however, insisted, and whatever Rapunzel wanted, everyone wanted.

Parties like this were usually held at the bride's home. This one, however, would be held at the Secret Police headquarters, a building formerly known as the Snuggly Duckling. The secret escape tunnel had been expanded into a catacombed labyrinth stretching across an entire undercity, allowing the Secret Policemen to appear anywhere at any time. It had been renovated and expanded extensively over the years, but it could still be coerced into remembering its old purpose. Besides, for Rapunzel, the Secret Police HQ was like a home away from home.

Preparations were made. Dozens of pigs, lambs, cows, and quails were slaughtered. Gold was hammered into leaf. Hundreds of ceramic pots were ordered. Tubs were wrought from the purest Arendelle silver. Vast quantities of wine were imported from France. Spices, oils, and perfumes were imported from the distant Orient. Musicians and performers were background checked and summoned to perform. An army of whores was needed, and raised. It was simple enough. The poor would be more than willing to debase themselves for a few thaler. They were even able to convince themselves that it was somehow empowering, or that doing this for the nobility was ennobling. Bismarck smirked at the thought. Few resources were as versatile as the desperate poor.

Never had more august company been gathered for so petty a purpose.

Bismarck was attending. It would make excellent blackmail material.

Rapunzel raised her arms up, and the drums began their drum roll. With a downward flourish, the largest of them were drawn to thunder, and the stone gargoyle heads opened, streams of fondue flowing out into readied troughs. There were rivers of white chocolate, milk chocolate, dark chocolate, and cheese. The silver tubs were moved to sit below overhangs. The festivities would now begin.

They began with traditional dancing. An assemblage of royals poured out into the center of the room, prancing and springing about. Napoleon II stood to the side, shuffling his feet and moving his hands unconvincingly back and forth. Rapunzel walked over, seized his hands, and began to swing him about, dragging him towards the spotlight. Then, as the music changed to a bombastic Prussian march, she steadily guided Napoleon over to her daughter, and linked their arms together, before shoving the couple back out into the fray. Napoleon blushed. So did Gothel. He stroked Gothel's long brown hair and cradled her head.

As the march came to an end, Rapunzel clapped her hands. Doors at the sides of the halls burst open, and men stood at attention, then strode out. They were bearing dishes of all kinds. Roast beef, suckling pig, braised turkey, fresh fish, Alsatian goose with pears, spiced cakes, honeyed rum, foie gras, all dusted with gold leaf. Queen Elsa stood at the bar, mixing cocktails. With a ironic smile parting her lips, and to Gothel's great embarassment and Napoleon's great discomfort, Rapunzel called for the singer to come forward and perform "Ich bin ein deutsches Mädchen". As the song came to an end, and the dishes grew sparser, Rapunzel called for a new round of food to feast on, and led the party in a musical number about the joys of alcoholism. After everyone had stuffed themselves to bursting, the tables and chairs were moved to the side. Few were in a position to stand or do anything, so couches were brought to lay on.

The prostitutes were led to the silver tubs, and made to kneel in them as servants poured water over them and washed their bodies. They were lathered up and soaped, bubbles coating the nubile bodies. Queen Elsa raised an eyebrow and flicked a finger, and the room visibly chilled. Nipples became hard enough to cut glass. King Eugene slicked back his salt-and-pepper hair, and shot one a smoldering gaze. Then performers took the stage. There were acrobats, contortionists, knife jugglers, sword swallowers, fire-breathers, and freaks of all shapes and sizes. Attila had prepared a variety of confections and deserts, and manservants gingerly lowered these fluffy creations into the waiting mouths of guests.

After the circus had concluded, Rapunzel brought the guests to the second floor, where the pots were waiting. The pots were then lifted over the tubs using pulleys. Rapunzel lifted her frying pan up, and smashed open the pot. The champagne within fell out, coming down in a liquid gold drizzle, drenching the whore waiting below. The bride and groom were called to break the next pot. Then it was open season, and pots broke left and right, some suspended above whores, other held in hand and thrown down onto the ground. Whore after whore was glazed with wine, honey, perfume, oils, beer, all sorts of things. The porcelain wasn't supposed to be full when broken, but Rapunzel didn't play by the rules. That's why she was wearing darkly-tinted glasses that evening. Normally a sign of weakness and infirmity, but royalty set trends, and she was sure this one could catch on. As the last pots shattered, massive kegs of wine were rolled into the great hall to dispense their sweet nectar.

The party returned to the ground floor. Whores rubbed their bodies with their liquid coatings, gyrating and swaying sensuously, fingers tracing the outlines of curves along themselves. They undulated and shook. Sweat trickled down thick pectorals and abdomens, ran thin lines down firm and perky breasts. This, too, was a display of Coronan wealth and power. A dance resumed among the guests. As the tempo of the music ramped up, the dances grew disorderly and chaotic. Soon they had lost all cohesion, degenerating into moving bodies groping and coming together, the grinding of flesh against flesh in a sweaty, lustful haze. It was a sort of foreplay, a prelude to things to come.

Bismarck watched.

At one point, Gothel disentangled herself from the heat and mixture. She stumbled over to her mother, who was sitting in a booth seat, flanked by two burly secret policemen in uniforms. Bismarck followed.

"You-a come-ah to me-ah on the day of my daughter's wedding, and-ah you ask-ah me for a favor?" said Rapunzel.  
"Mom, please be serious! I have to go real bad!" whined Gothel.

"You-ah think I am not serious, on this, the day of my daughter's wedding? Boys. Tell them how-ah serious I am," replied Rapunzel.

"She's very serious," said one of the guards.

"The boss is always serious," said the other.

"You see? You see? I am always serious. You are asking me for a serious favor. But how can I refuse? This is the day of my daughter's wedding."

"I'll pee in the chocolate fondue! Don't think I won't!"

Eugene walked over.

"Blondie, what are you doing? Bathrooms are over there," said Eugene.

"Thanks dad!" said Gothel, before she dashed off.

"Oh come on, Eugene. You're no fun," said Rapunzel.

"I'll show you how fun I can be later tonight," said Eugene, winking.

Rapunzel looked over, and saw Bismarck. She waved.

"Hey there! Bizzy Bee! Bizzooper! My main man B! What do you need? Wine? Whores? More tiny sandwiches? Say it, and it's done."

"Nothing, my liege. Enjoy yourself," said Bismarck, and he walked off, grabbing some deviled eggs from a passing tray.

The music was reaching a terrifying crescendo. Elsa had frozen the floor over, and the walls were now adorned with frosty ornamentation. She had mastered the art of changing the ice's color, and now the world flashed between chill blues, pale whites, dark pinks, sharp reds, and golden yellows, the hues pulsing through the room and filling the air. A single icy chandelier dangled above, light being filtered through its multicolored faces.

Anna surveyed the various whores. She counted out several. Two for sister dearest, two for husband beloved, two for herself, and six for the happy couple. It was a celebration for them, after all. Elsa had shaken her head softly, declined gracefully. Napoleon and Gothel had turned beet red and refused profusely. Anna's response was a simple shrug. It wasn't good to let good meat go to waste, and so later that night, she simply took all twelve up to her room. That night, groggy with exhaustion, Elsa would try to open the wrong door, realize her mistake, but fail to escape before a dozen pairs of arms grabbed her and dragged her in.

As the clock struck twelve, the party stilled. As was customary, the groom, the bride, and anyone else willing would be allowed to leave. After all, it wouldn't be becoming for the groom and bride to be consumed by hangover tomorrow. At this, Napoleon grabbed his wife-to-be, lifted her over his shoulder, and made a run for freedom, locking himself within his room.

After this, the memories grew hazy and blurred. The Secret Police had developed a variety of interesting chemicals, and their expertise now slipped into the cocktails. He remembered Anna naked wrestling a Bengali tiger. He remembered setting something on fire. He got a gift. He didn't remember what it was.

Gifts...

* * *

They were outside Versailles now. Rapunzel had approached him.

"Hey there Bismarck," said Rapunzel.

"Greetings, my Kaiserin."

"Hmmm. Should I really still call you Bismarck?"

"A peculiar question, my liege. I am Bismarck, am I not?"

"Really? That's odd, I thought I was talking to the sovereign Duke of Lublin..." said Rapunzel, trailing off.

Duke of Lublin? There was no such...

He was being made a sovereign duke. His family was joining the ranks of the mediatized. He dropped to his knees.

"Thank you, thank you, my Kaiserin! I am unworthy of such generosity."

"Stand. You are a Duke. You will not grovel. You will accept your gift with dignity."

Bismarck stood.

"Hope you don't mind if I still call you Bismarck," said Rapunzel.

"Of course not," replied Bismarck.

Then he was watching the pallbearers as they moved the coffin. He had cried. It was a useful political gesture, and he could cry on command. For everyone to see his devotion to the late Kaiserin was helpful. But then he continued to cry, something that made him look unmanly, and he grabbed the coffin and made great heaving sobs, and eventually the mourners dispersed, and he was there, sitting next to the remains of the Kaiserin and consort he had served for so long, wishing desperately for a deviled egg.

* * *

And then he was staring at the Kaiser's face. Such a stupid face for a stupid boy. The boy was only thirty, and youthful naivete still plagued him.

He had lost his temper, which he never did. But who could blame him?

"You stupid, stupid boy! You rash son of a boar! Do you realize what you've done? After your mother's reign, you decide to... decide to do this? I would rather have Elizabeth Christine, would rather have Gothel, would rather have Victoria, would rather have ANYONE than you! Fighting the Emperor of France? Do you even REALIZE what you've done? You've ruined everything, all my hard work wasted! This is how you choose to start your reign, you damned fool? I suppose we'll be dreaming of conquering Africa next! Do those tribal trinkets sound good to you? Do you want the shinies? The jingly gold pieces? Ooooh, jingle jingle shinies, that's what makes a fool happy!"

And the Kaiser had merely glared at him.

"Chancellor. You will remember who is Kaiser here."

And Bismarck realized his error.

Where did he think he was?

Then he realized his error. He was sitting there, alone in the whited sepulcher. The Berliner Dom wrapped around him. The face of his Kaiserin stared back in graven gold. He donned his pickelhaube, wiped off his tears, and walked into the chill of yet another 1888 night.


	88. Mashed Potatoes: Interlude

Mashed potatoes. One of the most boring but functional foods in all existence.

Still exotic for Elsa II Maria. They didn't grow much in the way of potatoes up in Arendelle.

"So this is your master plan, eh? Feed me potatoes," said Elsa Maria.

"Yeah, basically. If you get high blood pressure, I can kill you the same way I killed mother. Then I'll inherit the purely symbolic and powerless Arendelle throne," replied Napoleon II.

"This got very dark very fast."

"You know me. Sick sense of humor. More potatoes?"

"I won't fall for your dastardly potato plan."

"You sure?"

"Yes. So what's your real plan?"

"Real plan? Potatoes."

"You're joking."

"Completely serious."

"How do potatoes do anything?"

"You figure it out."

"How am I supposed to figure your crazy plan out?"

"We're twins. We've got a special connection. We can even finish each others-"

"Sesquipedalian loquaciousness."

"Sunset Sasparilla."

"Sourdough Yukonite."

"Sleeping on it."

"Sausage festival."

"Serenades to Spaniards."

"Sixpence for rent."

"Sickness and health."

"Sobriety."

They stopped and looked straight into each others eyes.

"Okay, I feel like we should make out now," said Elsa Maria.

"You're a deeply disturbed individual," replied Napoleon II.

"We have a special sibling bond."

"Yeah, I felt it too."

"Jesus, we're fucked up."

"How are the potatoes?"

"Good, I guess. So back to that plan you were talking about...?"

"Alright. You ready?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"You really sure?"

"I feel like this is reminding me of something."

"You really really sure?"

"Yeah, you would always give me a noogie after asking that last question."

"Yeah, I would."

"What's the plan?"

"I'm going to... do absolutely nothing."

"That's your genius plan?"

"Yes."

"To do nothing?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you got shot in the gut and not the brain?"

"It's brilliant, isn't it?"

"No, it's the other thing. It's extremely stupid."

"Pfff."

"I feel like maybe I've misjudged you all along. Maybe you've been stupid this whole time. Oh god, we're twins. Does that make me stupid too? Please, mom, come back! I don't want to be a stupid old lady!"

"DUN DUN DUN. It's too late to prevent it. We're both already OLD! And dumb!"

"Oh no."

"Check your liver spots. You know it to be true."

"Oh nooooooo."

"Yeah, so the plan is to do nothing."

"How is that going to help?"

"Auntie Anna always says to maximize your advantages and minimize your disadvantages. She's lived to be like... what, ninety-four now? It's not like she shies away from fights either. War has changed. All these improved weapons are going to make direct assaults very difficult. If my dear brother-in-law wants to take Paris, he'll have to push past a maze of trenches."

"And what happens if you die and your son takes over?"

"He'll probably mess it up."

"Pessimistic as always."

"Realist, sis, realist."

"I still can't believe he turned out to be such an asshole. He was such a cute baby."

"Spare the emotional neglect and constant absence, spoil the child, I say. Punzie spent too much time with her kids. One of them was bound to turn out rotten."

"He hit you in the face in the middle of a state ball."

"Yeah. He knocked some teeth out too."

"What would mom do right now?"

"Curl up into a ball, try not to cry, cry a lot. Then murder like a million people with ice magic."

"That's a way better plan than mashed potatoes. Why don't we do that?"

"Because mom had a heart attack when she heard I got shot, and she'd probably be dead of old age by now anyways."

"Wow, such realism."

"We must always be as grounded as the mighty potato. Be like the potato, and no foe will ever vanquish you. In fact, I'm replacing the tricolor of France with a potato."

"You love potatoes too much."

"I'm an Irishman trapped in the body of a Norwegian-Corsican pretending to be French. Woe is me."

"Alack, to be such a pitiful and wretched creature."

"Mmhmm, shame, shame. Shame upon our house."

"You know what? I like mashed potatoes."

"I do too, sis. I do too."


	89. Man of Steel: Interlude

Ioseb Jughashvili.

Attila took the helmet off and looked at himself in the mirror.

* * *

"I've been thinking about a legacy, kid."

The town was silent, but for his words and the pitter-patter of rodents along the streets.

"Yeah?" asked the youth beside Attila.

"Yeah. Let's get going," said Attila.

They walked along the empty streets, through the market, towards one of the various side roads.

"How do we even know he'll be here?" asked the boy.

"Did you read the reports?" asked Attila.

"Yeea- no. No."

"Always read the paperwork, always do the paperwork. A good job is like a good cupcake. You try to follow the recipe and get the right ingredients, but you also adapt and see what actually happens. Don't jump to the frosting before the cake itself is done. Got it?"

"Got it."

"You get a cupcake after we finish."

Attila grabbed the boy and shoved him in a barrel. He ducked into an alley. Moments later, an old man walked by. Moments later, Attila stepped back out of the alley, right behind the old man. The wizened elder turned around.

"Looking for something, pops?" asked Attila.

"How did you know I'd be here?" asked the old man, eyes wide.

"There's not a place on Earth where the sun don't shine. The sun knows all, sees all."

"What do you want from me?"

"What do _**I**_ want? Well, I want your head. But Punzie, she's so sweet and nice, she convinces me... eh, this guy is alright. You don't have to off him. And you know, she's so sweet about it that I agree. But really, if it was up to me, you'd already be a smear. It's okay, we're just here to talk. You like talking, right?"

"I don't want to talk!"

"Sure, you do. You talk allll the time. Talk about how much of a tyrant our dear, sweet Punzie is. You know, that's not really nice to say to such a kind girl. That's... well, that's downright slanderous. I don't take kindly to slander. It could make a very nice girl very very sad. I don't like that."

"Do anything, just let me li-"

"Lie some more? I don't think I will. I think... I think I'll make some breakfast."

Attila pulled out an entire leg of pork, and began to rip it apart with his bare hands. The old man watched, his jaw gaping open, his eyebrows oscillating, as if unsure of whether to show shock, disbelief, or fear.

"Pork's a funny thing. It's a good meat. It's a tasty meat. Pork has almost the same properties as human flesh. You ever have prosciutto? I make a prosciutto that's heavenly. And my honey-glazed ham? Well, it's to die for. I love talking cuisine. It's my favorite subject."

"Ummm... ummmm..."

"Well, if you're not hungry enough for breakfast, that's fine. Run along now. I'm glad we had this talk."

Attila slapped the man forward, and he ran off into the night. Attila walked back to the barrel and opened it.

"Catch all that?" asked Attila.

"Yeah. I don't think I understand," said the youngster.

"You don't have to kill a man to change his mind. In fact, not killing him usually helps."

"Alrighty."

"He's going to be confused. What happened just now was absurd. So maybe he thinks he had a weird dream. Then he wakes up, checks the foot of his bed... note saying that the sun shines everywhere. Boom. Changed man."

"So we just intimidated someone's gramps."

"Yeah. Did it stylish too. We had our bad cop, me, then we had our good cop. Thing is, I'm an unreliable source. He doesn't even know if there's a good cop, he's just got an implied good cop. One less thing he can trust."

"Seems kinda... sketchy."

"People want freedom, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Bullshit. People think they want freedom. You know your life up until now? The one spent as a poor piece of shit on the streets, robbing and stealing? That's a free life. I know, I lived it. No rules for me, no limits except my own strength. I like it better this way. People don't want to be free. They want to be happy and safe. So I keep them happy. Revolutions make things dirty, get blood on everything. They make it real hard to bake for a good long time."

Attila shoved a doormat aside with his foot, knocked a gargoyle head, then reached down into a grate and twisted some odd device hanging barely out of sight. A secret door opened. Attila was the fourth Security Director so far in Rapunzel's long reign. The previous had died the way all good secret policemen did: of old age, surrounded by friends and family. After each changeover, things had gotten a bit hectic, with malcontents taking advantage once they smelled chaos. It was regrettable. Nobody knew who Attila was behind the mask. He never took it off. Most cupcakes were ordinary. Every once in a while, though, you got that one special cupcake with the special, secret flavor. Those little miracles made it all worth it.

"So why me?"

"Because the sun shines everywhere, don't you get that? You really think you made a clean break with all those robberies? Nah. The police might not find you, but we can. We put you on a short list, had you tailed."

"And then why pull me out?"

"I decided you were a good kid. Don't prove me wrong."

"What if I said no?"

"Nobody says no to the secret police. Trust me. Besides, you're telling me you'd turn down money from the black budget? Those are clean bills, my friend. Not a hand has touched them, except for maybe the king's."

"So you're relying on my greed."

"Ah, ah, ah. What were you before this? Just another urchin down a long road to Nowheresville, population Dead. You got family, right? I bet they're as poor as you. Bet a lot of them are in a shitty place, but aren't nearly as skilled as you. You telling me you won't give them a bit of change?"

"...I will."

"That's what we're counting on. Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. We give them money straight, they squander it. You give it? Maybe they see you, decide to make something of themselves. We got education now, but some folks... they're always gonna fall through the cracks. The secret police is there to catch them. Ending poverty one urchin at a time."

"It sounds so noble. I know you're full of it."

"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. But you're in deep now, and you better get learning."

"So what do I have to learn?"

"Theft. Forced entry. Assassination. Intimidation. Lying. Cheating. All sorts of fun stuff. I expect you to reach proficiency, and maybe master one or two."

"And if I master them all?"

Attila laughed heartily.

"Then I teach you how to bake, kid."

Attila occasionally took sick days. After one of them, he brought in an entire tray of fresh cupcakes. They tasted delightful. Attila smiled behind the mask, and settled in for another twenty years.

* * *

Attila looked at his mask. It was only steel, yet it had defined who he was for so long. Even with it gone, it would still define him.

But he would not be the mask, only the material.

He would be a man of steel.

Despite all the charges and accusations leveled at him, most of them justly made, none would ever call him a bad baker. He held many dinners over his life. Every time, the baking was good.

"Attila is dead," he murmured to himself.

Joseph Stalin. That was a name.


	90. Maturity: Interlude

_And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon_

There are few things more startling than finding strangers in your own home. Theoretically, though, there shouldn't have been anyone in the palace like that. The facts of the matter were staring her in the face. There were two little midgets standing in the hall, one blonde, the other brunette. Elsa had only the slightest idea of who they were.

They were her children, and they were strangers.

The boy saluted and the girl curtsied. At least the nanny had taught them some sort of manners. Still, Elsa still had trouble with proper introductions. Almost instinctively, she fell back to the only way she knew how to open up to family.

"Do you want to build a snowman?" asked the Queen.

"No, thank you. I prefer to play army men," said the boy.

"Ooh, can I be Corona this time?" asked the girl.

"Sure! I'll be Russia."

And with that, the two left, the boy marching with hands folded behind his back, the girl happily skipping.

Elsa looked very much like a deer in headlights.

* * *

_Little boy blue and the man on the moon_

Napoleon was sitting across Elsa's desk, his blonde curls falling into his eyes. He had his fingers steepled, and his inquisitive eyes looked right into Elsa's.

"I can do calculus, mom," said Napoleon.

"Very good," said Elsa, as her mouth squirmed.

"I... uhhhh... I've really applied myself to my studies."

"Yes. Very good. Your favorite food is... foie gras."

"Yes. You enjoy Hadyn's compositions."

"I do."

"I've brushed up on finance and resource allocation."

"Yes, you have. That's good."

Elsa stared at her fingers. Napoleon blinked. He blinked again. Then he blinked around five times in quick succession, and mumbled something. Elsa didn't quite hear, but she nodded as if she did. Napoleon coughed softly.

"I like our gallery," said Elsa's son.

"It's very nice."

A functionary opened the door.

"Your majesty? The new ironworks requires your attention," said the man.

Elsa waved her hand, pushed out her chair, and stood up. She started towards the door, but Napoleon toddled out from his seat and hugged her. It lasted only a few moments before he let go, never having made eye contact with the woman twice his his height.

Neither of them understood the hug, or could come up with a reason for it.

* * *

_When you comin' home mom?_

"Do you think mommy has another family?" asked Napoleon.

"I dunno. Pass me another bucket of men," said Elsa Maria.

Napoleon complied, and Elsa Maria seized a handful of miniatures. She deployed her little army, trying to probe the weaknesses of the dread fortress dominating the field. It would be difficult to take ground.

"She's never around. I think she's ashamed of us," said Napoleon.

"Okay, so then what?" asked little Elsie.

"Well... I haven't thought of that yet."

They rolled dice, and Napoleon took initiative. He brought his cavalry and prepared to launch a flanking maneuver. Elsa Maria scowled.

"That's not fair, Nappy. You never play fair!"

"Fog of war, it's totally fair. You just never take it into account."

"Well, you're just a meanie."

Elsa Maria made her roll, and smiled as it came to a rest. Perfect! With a smug smirk, she replaced the elegant black-dressed woman at the head of her army with a fearsome dragon. Then she swept her arm across the field, removing silver knights and stout crossbowmen left and right. She shot her brother a glance as if to say "Your move."

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow, and calmly moved his leader forward. He picked up the dice and threw them to the side, not even bothering to check the result. He looked back at his sister, who was clapping with glee.

"I win, I win, I win! I'm the winner, you're the loser! Loooooooser!"

"Check the dice."

"Pff, that's not nearly a good enough roll. Maleficent has invulnerability saves."

"Sword of Truth."

"What?"

"Check the rulebook. Sword of Truth."

She frantically grabbed at the book and flipped through the pages as quickly as she could, practically tearing them with her frenetic exertion. Finally, she came to the page on the Prince Phillip unit. Tears were already welling up in her eyes as she unceremoniously dropped the book.

"You couldn't let me win! Not once! Every time, you have to be the winner! Never me!"

"Elsie, shhhh... it's okay... calm down..."

"No, it's not okay! If mom were here, she'd... she'd..."

Elsa Maria doubled over, sobbing. Napoleon crossed the table and embraced her.

"Why isn't mom here? Why isn't she ever here?" pleaded Elsa Maria.

"I'll bring her back, Elsie. I promise. She'll be proud of us."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm always sure."

Napoleon smiled.

* * *

_I don't know when, but we'll get together then son_

"What are you doing with that?" asked Elsa.

"What does anyone do with a barrel of gunpowder?" said Anna.

"Hopefully not another crazy misadventure, is what."

"Nah, nothing like that. I'm just going to fight in the Australian bush for a year. It'll be fun."

"Wait, what?"

"Aus... trai... lia... it's a death continent in the mysterious Orient. It'll be fun."

"Death continent."

"Yeah, a war has broken out between the settlers and a bunch of bloodthirsty savages."

"Bloodthirsty savages. Death continent. Are you even listening to yourself?"

"No, not really. Anyhow, I'm taking Nappy and Elsie."

"Wait, what?"

"Gotta pop those cherries some day."

"No, they do not have to 'pop those cherries'! That's disgusting!"

"You can't keep them safe forever."

"Maybe I can try! Who are you to say I can't?"

"Your sister, and I'm saying they're going to have some quality family time."

"Quality time? You call that quality time?"

"Yes, I do. Quality time like we should've had growing up."

"Not that kind of quality time. They don't need to see any of that. They need to stay safe and sound."

"Gonna stick them up in a tower then?"

"No, but... I... I can't let them see me like this. I can't let them know... who I am... it's..."

"We live dirty lives. Can't pick who your parents were, so might as well get them used to it. They're royalty. Say it with me, ro-yal-ty. It's a way of life. You have to let them go."

"I should be better. I should be a good role model. I should be able to show them my work without feeling ashamed! I might be messed up, but I should give them a chance to be good."

"Elsa... you can't keep doing this to yourself, or them."

"So that's it then? Your final decision."

"Yeah, it is. Don't worry, me and Kristoff know our way around a warzone. They'll be safe. I promise."

You can kick dirt on dirt, and nothing will show. Get some dirt on a snowball, though, and it'll sit there, staring back. Some things are simply too pure for an imperfect world.

Elsa reached her hand out towards the harbor, and wished that she could freeze the one thing she never could.

Time stops for no man.

* * *

_You know we'll have a good time then _

She had squandered the precious little time she had. He wasn't her precious little boy anymore, he was Major Napoleon Bonaparte, Coronan Light Infantry, hero of the Russo-Turkic War, recipient of the Iron Cross.

He had come home to ask for 5 million thalers to finance French rebels. Elsa agreed. Charles X fell, but the rotten corpse lived a while longer. It was not yet time.

The staff kept the halls nicely tidy. It was quite easy.

* * *

_You know we'll have a good time then_

It was far too dangerous. Anna was completely right, though. They were nearly forty now, and it wasn't right for her to try and stop them. So why did she want to try so badly? Why was she being so irrational? Stupid, stupid, stupid. The walls were closing in on her.

Weeks passed.

Then came the news. Her son had been shot.

She turned ashy gray. She stepped forward, then fell. She curled up, clutched at her own heart, and tried to gasp out a few words. She was unsuccessful. Her sister rushed to her side and tried to resuscitate, with no success. The body chilled, turned blue, then froze solid.

Elsa Hohenzollern died as she lived: curled up in a little ball, surrounded by a puddle of her own tears, controlled by fear, with her sister trying desperately to save her from herself.

Such was the death of one of the most saintly and heroic figures of the 19th century. In the end, almost every move had been vindicated. Biologists discovered the usefulness of a clean water supply. New industry brought money, which brought good health, food, and education. Her policy of mass inoculation had kept millions of children from dying. One by one, her policies spread from nation to nation, bringing an end to some of the worst miseries the world had ever seen.

We do not praise the dead for their sake. No amount of mourning or eulogizing can help them. But these little rituals remind us that life is worth living. That these dead existed once, and that they helped the world far beyond what was due by right from them. That each life that flickers into the world does not diminish the brightness, but rather increases it. If their life was worthwhile, then...

So was ours. And so we slip the coin onto the tongue, and we pray.

* * *

_And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me  
He'd grown up just like me  
My boy was just like me_

And then the hourglass was turning. On March 3, 1890, Napoleon II was on a carriage ride, silently pondering the many failures of his son. Weary of disappointment, he took a nap and never woke up. Across the sea, his sister decided to retire to her room early. She watched dusk break over the Arendelle sea, and she slipped away with the tide.

Over the next decade, the French Empire would abandon its defensive strategy and consider the merits of sustained offense.__

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon  
Little boy blue and the man on the moon  
When you comin' home son?  
I don't know when, but we'll get together then son  
You know we'll have a good time then 


	91. Man of Blood: Interlude

"_By the time my mother was ten, she was exploring the finer points of proofs and non-Euclidean geometry. By the time I was ten, I was studying calculus and the Amiot's translation of the Art of War. By the time my son was ten, he had learned how to play jacks._

_By the time my mother was forty, she had presided over one of the most successful industrializations in history, second only to Britain's. I was claiming my birthright. And my son...?_

_He had discovered how to jack with himself!" - Napoleon II_

A great mind given low expectations will fall into mediocrity. A low mind given great expectations will fall into madness.

From the day he was born, Napoleon III was a disappointment to his father. Although they had tried rather hard for rather long, Napoleon II was 37 before his first child was born. The child was christened Josephine Christine Bonaparte-Hohenzollern.

Only three years later, Napoleon III was born. The childbirth would prove to be difficult, and the midwife advised Napoleon II against further conceiving of children, lest unfortunate consequences occur. That was the first of many signs. Soon afterwards, Empress Gothel fell into post-partum depression. Napoleon II was not a happy man.

As Napoleon III grew, the elder Napoleon found more reason to dislike him. Genius is a peculiar thing. Though intelligence is heritable, over time, a regression to the mean is inevitable. For example, Rapunzel had a piercing, if eccentric, intellect. Of her children, only Elizabeth Christine and Eugene would inherit it, and Eugene's gift would be coupled with impatience, dilettantism, and an even more manic temper. Elsa's parents had not been particularly intelligent. Anna was not very smart either. Yet Elsa had a genius that only appears in one in every thousand, and a will to use that genius. Both her children would have that gift.

Napoleon III would not. He was most certainly not a genius, though he was not stupid either. His mind was of a very ordinary kind. Napoleon II looked upon this and found it despicable. It was yet another sign of weakness. He would show him mathematical problems, have him write essays, study diplomacy, steward financial assets, even attempt the arts, anything to find a spark of talent. There was none. The son would grow to hate the large and unfulfilled demands of the father. And the father would hate the meanness and ordinary nature of the son.

Napoleon II was not a Frenchman. He had been reared in Arendelle, had made his career in Corona, and had come to France already a mature and well-formed man. While his countrymen loved him, and he loved them, he was not of their breed. This was not true of Napoleon III. The boy had been born in France, and his heart held a French spirit. Both of them loved France, yet their ideas of love were far different. It is not so hard to turn love into hate, for the emotions are not so different. This became painfully apparent when Napoleon III sat in on his first meeting of state. There was trouble in the south. The Occitanian culture continued to flourish, and in this new age of nationalism, that was a very dangerous thing indeed. Napoleon II's chosen course of action was reeducation, cultural suppression, and a steady destruction of the dialect. Voices were raised against this decision, and one of them was his son's. This was another sign.

Napoleon III was a Frenchman, but his veins did not flow with French blood, and for that, he was eternally resentful. When he was a child, he would learn of his father's ceding of Alsace-Lorraine, and he would grow hateful. It was not right for France to bow to Corona. Once, France had dictated terms, not only to Corona, but to the entire continent. That memory was the very reason for his name! And yet his father had prostrated himself like a common dog. And his mother... his mother was one of the German whores. She did not prepare hearty and proper French meals. She cooked Polish and German dishes. She didn't speak a bit of French.

Poor Gothel. The woman would have been content with a simple life. If Elizabeth Christine had been the thinker, Victoria the charmer, and Eugene the fighter, then Gothel had inherited her mother's love of art and simple housework. She was pious and particularly unambitious, and wished only to be a good wife and mother.

She became the target of her own son's impotent rage. How else could he express his frustrations against the German people? He had no real money. His father's constant sternness and disappointment had molded the boy into a sullen and rebellious man, a man not easily liked. The men of France did not respect him either, seeing him as only his father's pup, giving him no force to take on some wild adventure. So he used what limited power he did have on the only target he could reach.

One day, Napoleon II decided to surprise his beloved wife. He grabbed her on the shoulder, only for her to recoil and turn around with the fear-struck eyes of a scared doe. The gears of Napoleon II's mind turned quickly, and in mere moments he comprehended.

The boy was no mere failure. He was a demon child.

A monster.

He regretted that he had not put the signs together earlier, for they lay in clear writing.

What options were available for him, though? If it was an earlier age, it would've been easy. Peter the Great had forced his own son into exile, and later tortured him to death. Catherine the Great made her son's life a living hell, and put into motion a conspiracy that would destroy him. Qin shi Huang exiled his heir apparent to a frontier guard position, and he would later be forced into suicide. Assassins, exiles, and dungeons, these were tools to be used on hated children. If it was a later age, it would have been easily done as well. Stalin let his only son perish in captivity. He didn't trade privates for generals, after all. Yet in this day and age, killing or exiling your children was generally frowned upon. Taking clear actions to punish him would cause political fallout, as the people and foreign nations saw that everything was not quite right in the House of Bonaparte, and the succession became less clear. Assassinations of important people, at least, were investigated quite thoroughly, and if he kept his own men away, foreigners would grow suspicious and send their own spies to find out the news.

So Napoleon III took the only course available to him. He locked his son out of the palace and sent him away to a distant estate. He closed the doors and barred the windows to his heart. His child would be protected from this beast and his unnatural ways. His wife would suffer no longer. The father and his former son would never speak again. Napoleon II would be left to brood on this greatest of disappointments.

And in exile, Napoleon III's hatred would only grow. WWI was a cousin's war, but more than that, it was a war between two men so very alike in temper and belief, yet so diametrically opposed in goal. There they were, two twins of different fathers, two branches of a twisted tree of royalty growing deep above Europe, with the Nidhoggr nipping at their heels.

It is fashionable to place all the blame for WWI at Corona's feet. Yet, if not for French pressures, the Balkans situation could have been contained. Ultimately, it takes two to tango. For war to occur, peace must be made intolerable.


	92. Mao's Dilemma: Interlude

"_In game theory, the Nash equilibrium is a solution concept of a non-cooperative game involving two or more players, in which each player is assumed to know the equilibrium strategies of the other players, and no player has anything to gain by changing only their own strategy." - Wikipedia_

Mao and Gerhardsen both had decisions to make.

Infrastructure does not last forever. Much is made of talent, natural resources, education, and entrepreneurial drive. With such glamorous aspects of prosperity on the table, it is all too easy to forget the essential role of infrastructure. A city without a proper water and sewage system will fester with disease. A city without a power supply is hauled back to the dark days of the pre-modern era. A nation without good roads cannot move resources and people to where they are needed. A nation without rails finds transport of goods more expensive than it should be. A nation without ports is hard-pressed to export significant value. Infrastructure is the bedrock upon which the nation rests.

Norway's infrastructure was in a woeful state of decay. Much of it dated back to the monarchist era, and a great deal of it was merely continuously maintained projects dating all the way back to Queen Elsa the Magnificent. Few had bothered to pay attention to these most humble of things while the revolution blazed. In every workplace, there is always one person with indispensable knowledge. Kill that person, then kill every person they worked with. Now try to imagine reconstructing what he knew. With many of the old hands dead, fled, or imprisoned, there was a dire lack of expertise pertaining to the workings of Norwegian infrastructure. The old pillars that supported the country were falling apart. Something had to be done.

Mao favored a rapid reconstruction and mass diversion of resources towards rebuilding the country's infrastructure. This would allow for the re-opening of the shuttered factories, and the revitalization of the country in rapid order. Gerhardsen preferred a slow, but steady rebuilding, with care taken to keep society running as it was now, just in case efforts fell through. Most labor would remain on farms and only a small amount would be redirected towards repair.

As stated before, divisiveness kills. These two most powerful of men could not be seen disagreeing. This would invite the depredations of disloyal subordinates and hungry outsiders.

Four possibilities now opened up. Both men had extensive contacts in the nation's security apparatus. The reorganization of the entire south of Norway into the Hordaland-Ostlandet Semi-Autonomous Region had given them a great deal of freedom from the Soviet yoke. If they both lived, and agreed to compromise, neither would really get what they wanted, but the country would move along, and moderate benefits from both ways could be reaped, but neither man would receive as much credit as desired. If, on the other hand, one had the other removed, they would reap all the benefits of their method, and get all the credit for the reforms. But if they both acted to eliminate the other, then both men would die, and the country would fall into chaos and civil war. Their legacy would be one of political anarchy.

Such was Mao's dilemma.

There is also the problem of information.

Einar Gerhardsen made his gambit. He openly broadcast his intentions to go to a secluded, unguarded cabin in the woods. His men spread the message. Mao's men confirmed it. Everything checked out. Einar was going to cooperate. Would Mao cooperate or assassinate?

The Nash equilibrium for such a game would have both men attempt to kill each other. Now that Einar had openly declared his intention to cooperate, Mao could assassinate without risk, and reap all of the rewards. The hypothetical game theory man in his position would take that chance and exploit it. Mao signed an order to the Norwegian Red Guard.

Einar had changed the game. Mao **could **assassinate without consequence. But what Einar had effectively done was eliminate his own power to act. By declaring non-action beforehand, he had twisted the nature of the thing. This was not the Prisoner's Dilemma.

As was fitting for such men, it had now become the Dictator's Game. Rather than two actors competing, one simply decided the fate of the other. The perfectly rational actor would take everything. However, people are not simulations. Most people will give the other person in the game something. Gerhardsen knew this. So did Mao.

Theoretical games occur in theory. In practice, there is a value given to appearing generous and acting altruistically. People do not always maximize their rewards. This might be seen as an aberration and sign of mankind's inferior mental capabilities, but altruism evolved because it was useful. Appearing altruistic had political benefits.

Mao knew this. He was not Stalin. He was able to charm at times, to even amass loyal friends. When he fell from grace and Red China collapsed, his personal connections allowed him to make an escape, and to take his friends with him. There was value in sparing foes and rewarding friends. An erasure, once made, cannot be undone. Better to simply tear the offending page out and store it somewhere safe. If needed, a bit of tape and glue could restore it.

Still, there was a great deal of prestige at stake. The letter made its way to a secret meeting place, where the most loyal of Mao's supporters sharpened their blades.

Gerhardsen chose to cooperate.

By doing so, he was trading away his ability to act, betting that the tendency towards altruism in a one-sided game would save him. It was a dangerous move to make.

Prestige is not the only side of politics. There is also blame.

Mao's men made their way towards the snowy cabin.

By going passive, Gerhardsen had ensured that the prestige would go to Mao, the acting party. At the same time, if plans went awry, Gerhardsen could be blamed, and Mao's supporters would be able to claim a more complete Great Leap would've succeeded. In short, Gerhardsen had already traded away all of his upside and prevented all of Mao's downside.

Which meant he was no longer a threat. Gerhardsen knew this. So did Mao.

The soldiers surrounded the cabin, formed a perimeter, and guarded Gerhardsen. After a few days, he returned from the North Mountain and signed Mao's compromise bill.

Mao chose to cooperate.

By placing his life in Mao's hands, Gerhardsen had changed the rules of the game. He had given Mao every reason to spare him, which meant that Mao won either way. Mao, being less bloodthirsty though just as ruthless as Stalin, was willing to take such a deal. It was in his best interests as well, as it allowed him to keep a scapegoat if things went badly. At the same time, Gerhardsen knew Mao's health was poor. The man did not properly bathe or take care of his teeth. His body was failing him. Gerhardsen would not gain prestige here, but he already had enough, and he also had power. All that was necessary to win was to survive.

One does not take over a country with a thousand men by being stupid. One does not earn the title "Father of the Fatherland" by being stupid.

In tournament play of the Prisoner's Dilemma, the winning AI is not the one that plays according to the Nash Equilibrium.

A slave chooses. A man trusts.


	93. Moscow Blues: Interlude

Alexander I outlived his wife by only a few years. While on returning from a trip from Arendelle, he caught cold. The disease worsened, and in 1829, he died of pneumonia. He was 52. Elsa would weep bitterly at his funeral, but most of the Russian nobility would make only a token showing of sadness. He had been a mercurial and domineering man, and his unpredictability coupled with his high standards made work under him very difficult.

Nicholas had renounced his claim to the Russian throne when he married Elsa Maria. Unfortunately, neither brother particularly desired the throne. As such, a civil war was briefly fought in Russia to decide which of the brothers would receive the crown, a game of thrones where both sides wanted to lose. Compared to most other such events, this was relatively bloodless, and it was over quickly, with only a few dozen killed or executed. Constantine won, or rather, lost.

Constantine's first marriage had been arranged by Catherine the Great, but it was unhappy and ending in a decade long separation before annulment. Constantine had been very much in favor of the Franco-Russian alliance, and its breaking of it had left a sour taste in his mouth. With peace restored following the invasion, Constantine visited the Coronan court. There he met Countess Grudzinska, the love of his life. Less than a year later, in 1810, he had his previous marriage annulled, and married the Countess.

After the succession, Grudzinska and her future heirs were allowed to retain their property, on the condition that the title would be lost if Russia and Corona ever engaged in hostilities. Furthermore, Rapunzel silently seized more control over the local administration, effectively turning it into a crown holding. Constantine didn't particularly care. This would become a running theme of his nine year rule.

Constantine had a great deal of good will from the people of Russia, coming from both his bravery in battle, and his opposition to his brother's more ruthless and amoral policies. This good will was never completely squandered, but much of it was wasted. Constantine did not care for rule, so he did not rule. He simply periodically sent letters to the army telling them to suppress dissidents and maintain the status quo, which they did efficiently. For that, he acquired a reputation as a ruthless blackguard and tyrant. In truth, he was neither, he simply did understand the mechanisms of rule and did not care to learn.

First and foremost, he was a family man. He would come to dearly love his adopted homeland of Corona, and over the years would thoroughly reform himself into the very model of a Polish noble. He had two sons, who were roughly as able as he was, and who he loved very much. He was reasonably pleasant, and he spent much of his time at the royal palace socializing. Many especially loved his down-to-earth and frank manner of speaking, refreshing from such a powerful man. Such a manner had come at a very steep price. He was down-to-earth because he had little real awareness of what his position actually meant. Many months, all he did with Russia was take his living income from it. It was a modest sum, as he lived somewhat frugally, but that was not the problem. The problem was his conspicuous and constant absence, leaving Russia completely rudderless. He did not wield an iron fist in a velvet glove because he had no fist at all.

His brother's works, which had taken so much to create, were not destroyed. But they were not nourished either. The reforms lay as seeds, ungrowing but unwithered. Constantine would leave Russia essentially as he had found it. This does not sound so bad, but it was an era of rapid economic advancement, social upheaval, and revolutions in the art of war. As the world moved into the modern age, Russia stayed put.

Alexander was rolling in his grave.

He was succeeded by his eldest son Pawel. Pawel was an easy-going man, weak of will and forgiving. Pawel was the kind of man who believed in compromise and reasonableness. If forced to make a decision between two parties, he would simply pick the middle position, regardless of the arguments backing each side. In a good compromise, no one is happy.

Pawel would abolish serfdom, not because of any great moral need, but simply because every other country had, and it seemed very odd to be left out. Soon, very many nobles were angry at him. Pawel did not feel the need to send military force after these dissenters, nor did he feel the need to protect the newly-freed serfs. Many nobles took their revenge on their former subjects, ignoring their supposed rights as free men. The serfs grew to hate Pawel too.

After only three years, he was assassinated.

He would be succeeded by his brother Aleksy. Aleksy had one main goal in life, and that goal was to enjoy sunshine. Russia was not a very sunny place. Thus, Aleksy fell back onto his second biggest goal in life-to be lazy. Being dead is not conducive to being lazy, except in a most perverse way. That was not the laziness Aleksy was looking for. He would adopt a policy of simply not shaking the boat. He would find out what interests powerful players had, and then ignore those interests as fervently as he could. The serfs would not really get a better lot in life as free men, but that didn't matter. No more changes would be forthcoming. Aleksy lived reasonably well. He ate fine food when he could, and supped lightly when health dictated he could not feast. He married a woman who did not really love him, nor him her, but who was pleasant and willing to get by regardless, and they had children that were not really disappointing, but not special either. Another twenty-five years passed with nothing happening.

He was succeeded by his son Michael, who would be known as Michael the Drinker or Old Man Michael. Michael was a firm believer in autocracy and the limitless power of the crown. Michael was also a man very unsure in his desires. This would prove to be the foundation of an enduring Russian joke.

Michael would call for his courtiers, and loudly proclaim his power. They would ask for what he wanted. He would not be able to answer. After a few moments, a courtier would supply him with a bottle of vodka, and the Tsar would burst into tears.

"How did you know what he wanted?" the others would ask.

"Michael wants to drink. That's always what he wants," would respond the main courtier.

Needless to say, he was not very respected. Power without action is farce. Still, he would keep the peace for many years, even at home. Violent suppression of rebels became mostly a thing of the past, although media was still heavily restricted. Freemen would even see their actual rights almost reach the level of their nominal ones.

He did not marry and had no children. For this, many would simply assume he was gay. Perhaps he even was. However, no evidence has been found for lovers of any kind, let alone male ones. His biggest hobby was the delivery of droning, monotone speeches. These would go on for hours at a time, much to the consternation of the courtiers. Such was the character of the last Tsar.

As he grew older, and the chance of a legitimate heir dwindled into nothing, the nobility decided to arrange a smooth succession. The crown was to pass to a distant cousin, a man named Nicholas, after his great-grandfather. He and his family lived in Arendelle, but soon would travel to and fro from Russia.

The people were not pleased. All of the promise of Alexander I had evaporated, leaving only salty disappointment and stagnation. The world had changed. Dumpy old buildings had been replaced by glittering steel towers to touch the sun, and soft hands were replaced by mechanical ones. Yet Russia remained the same. Now the throne was being passed to a foreign man, one that did not even belong to the motherland, a stranger in a strange land. The political machine of the nation was the club of a few old men, woefully out of touch. The bankrupting of the country to fight a war based on bizarre dynastic ties and ancient alliances forged for the sake of outsiders was the last straw.

The Tsarist government fell.

At the time of the revolution, Nicholas was already preparing to return to Arendelle. When he heard the cacophony of crowds in the distance, he finished packing and had his family early. He did not realize the revolution had come. He simply didn't want to be caught in some petty peasant riot.

He arrived at the railway station, and his ticket was accepted. They could have been stopped there. However, the station master was tired. Last night, he and his wife had argued well into the wee hours over the placement of a new couch. He had slept through the morning's commotion, and was completely unaware of the chaos. His employees had deserted the station, and begrudgingly he handled the boarding of the family himself. He would have an egg salad sandwich for lunch that day.

They crossed over to the Swedish border, but were stopped at Customs. However, the border agent was snagged into a conversation about soccer, and soon lost track of the fact that he was supposed to be working. After all, the crossing in question was usually a very lonely one. When the shift change occurred, the agent forgot to tell the next worker to deny their passage, and Nicholas simply claimed the family was approved. They crossed.

And a helmeted man would worm his way into Lenin's circle. He had lost everything following WWI and the end of the old Coronan secret police. Still, he was resourceful. Attila was granted a position inspecting new recruits.

He would rise like the break of the Red Dawn.


	94. Manuscript: Interlude

Elsa lifted the page tenderly with her gloved hand. She was careful not to put much force into the movement. One bit of pressure too much, and the paper might crumble into dust. By weight, the book was more valuable than gold. Inside lay the handwritten artistry of a bygone age.

"Whatcha doing, Elsa?" asked Anna.

"Looking at medieval manuscripts. I'm writing a book on medieval history," said Elsa.

"Wow, that's cool! I'm so glad I have such a smart sister," said Anna.

"Right now I'm trying to figure out the symbolism behind all these knights fighting snails."

"Symbolism?"

"Yeah, behind the knights fighting snails."

"Why can't they just be giant snails?"

"That's ridiculous."

"I'm sure we do a bunch of ridiculous stuff too! Would you want someone to just ignore that because it's ridiculous?"

"Our ridiculous stuff is better documented and also perfectly rational."

"This is the only way they had to document things, so it is well-documented."

"It's a bunch of storybook nonsense, outrageous creatures, and magic."

"You're magic..."

"I... uhh... well... that's different. You can't seriously be asking to use those old fairy tales as evidence."

"Why not?"

"Because... the Seven Electors of the Holy Roman Empire who are also dwarves help Snow White elope against the wishes of her father, breaking the power of the old dynasty and allowing the Hapsburg rise to power... sounds... stupid. That's it, okay? It sounds dumb!"

"Why does it sound dumb?"

"Doc, Grumpy, Happy, Dopey, Sneezy, Bashful, Sleepy."

"Bohemia, Palatinate, Mainz, Trier, Brandenburg, Saxony, Cologne!"

"Damnit, Anna."

Elsa put the book down. Rapunzel walked on.

"Everybody having fun?" asked Rapunzel.

"Yup," said Elsa.

"Yeah," said Anna.

"Fantastic!" replied Punzie.

"What would've happened if we said no?" asked Elsa.

The world went still, as if afraid to take a breath. The light was suddenly snuffed out, a dark filter placed on God's lens. Elsa breathed in softly, and it tasted beige. Rapunzel's eyes shrank into tiny white dots, piercing in hateful intensity.

"You took my army on a joyride. This is not orderly. So it would be the racks. The screws would be placed. Bones would crunch. The rack would tighten. You would stretch. Your back would be broken against the spikes. The pain would become too much. You would die. Your heads would be removed. They would be placed on my mantle. I would make them one with me. We would recreate the body of the Ur-Mother together. And together our mouths would open, and we would sing the song that ends the Earth," droned Rapunzel.

Then everything was suddenly normal again, and Elsa exhaled.

"Of course, I would try to make that fun! I could do drawings on you while you stretched! Drawings are fun. Ooh, and stickers! I love stickers. Do you love stickers?" continued Rapunzel.

Eugene stuck his head in from the other room.

"On the scale, I give that a 4/10," said the King.

"Thanks Eugene!" replied Rapunzel. She sighed and placed a hand on her breast. "Isn't he just dreeeamy?"

"Right. I'm glad we cleared that up," said Elsa.

"No problem, that's what cousins are for. I'm so glad we're having fun," said Queen Rapunzel.

"So what's this about a scale?" asked Elsa.

"I'm glad you asked, cuz!" said Rapunzel.

She dropped a thickly bound tome on the table. It was labeled "Relevant Rapunzel Statistics and Data, 1815". Elsa opened it up.

"See, Eugene has a scale which he ranks how crazy the things I do are. So I decided... I use a lot of statistics, why not track that? So I did! And here it is," said Rapunzel.

Sure enough, there were listings of crazy incidents per day, intensity of said incidents, moving averages on crazy per day, projections into the future, median, mode, and range of incidents by day, week, month, and year, and an adjusted Crazy Punzie Index, or CPI. Elsa skimmed the book, finally arriving at a part labeled "Diary Entries".

7 am the usual morning lineup... 7 am the usual morning lineup... 7 am the usual morning lineup... was curious this morning about swimming, had weights attached to a death row inmate before he was dropped in the sea. He treaded water for 3.2 seconds. Cool! 7 am the usual morning lineup... 7 am the usual morning lineup... Suppressed a revolt in Konigsberg today. A couple hundred rebels were making trouble. I had the dragoons bring me their left ears. I don't know what I'm going to do with this sack of ears, but I'm sure I can think of something! 7 am the usual morning lineup... 7 am... 7 am... Played a prank on a political prisoner today. They usually don't get condiments with their gruel, so I filled a bottle with clotted blood and told him it was ketchup. Boy, the look on his face when I told him was priceless! He was pretty good at arts and crafts, he made his clothes into a rope. Did you know people defaecate when they die? I saw it firsthand. 7 am... 7 am... 7 am... Drew a scale version of _The Last Supper _on Eugene's butt while he slept. I don't think he'll notice. 7 am... 7 am... 7 am... He finally noticed. Made a working steam boiler out of metal scraps and glue. 7 am... 7 am... 7 am... Had the chefs make me some dishes from exotic Mexico. Muy caliente! Pushed Steve off the ramparts when he went outside to fart. Steve was a British spy. 7 am... 7 am... 7 am... Hit our ten year plan's goal early. We're a year ahead of schedule! Say goodbye to dead babies! Bye dead babies! Hello increased labor force in two decades! Came up with a new ten year plan while singing in the shower. Held a successful plan party. Gave everyone celebratory ear necklaces I made myself. I wonder if they liked them?

Why did everything weird happen on Thursdays?

Elsa heard frantic squawking coming from the room over. There was also the sound of hoof beats and the ringing of a loud, tinny bell.

"Why is our family so crazy?" whispered Elsa to herself.

"Inbreeding! Wait, was that a rhetorical question?" said Punzie.

"Anyways, me and Elsa were talking earlier... did your parents ever do anything really weird?" asked Anna.

"Hmmm... ummmm... hmmm... oh! I know! Just before my dad died, he told me he had to show me an ancient tradition of our people, one that was sadly dying out. He led me to a field, and we put a fox in a tiny catapult, and shot it into the air. It went 'Yip yip yip yip yip yip yip splorch!' That last bit is the sound a fox makes when it goes splat," said Rapunzel.

"Elsa, what was that about us being rational and not doing silly stuff?" asked Anna.

"Okay... okay. Yeah, you're right. The Hapsburgs rose to power because a princess wanted to marry a Wittelsbach, and dwarf electors fought the Emperor and his wife. Charlemagne founded his empire after he and his paladins used their chivalrous might to slay the giant wizard snails plaguing Europe, and all the babies were super muscular, probably because babies had to work out or something, I don't know. Yeah."

"See, isn't that better? If that was in the history books, I would've paid way more attention to my tutor!" said Anna.

"Don't you mean paid attention at all?" asked Elsa.

"Nope. Chocolate was first shipped commercially to Europe in 1585, heading from Veracruz to Sevilla," recited Anna.

Elsa sighed. The clock struck 7:00PM. Rapunzel looked up.

"Wow, time really flies, huh? Looks like it's time for the next activity station," said Rapunzel.

"Activity station? What activity station? Next? What activity was this supposed to be?" asked Elsa.

"Well, it was going to be painting, but I accidentally used up all our paints. I won the bet though! Hehehe, Eugene thinks he can outsmart me," said Rapunzel.

"I'm not going to ask," said Elsa.

The party moved out into the hall. Eugene, Kristoff, and Sven were already there. Kristoff and Eugene were both wearing shirts that said "#1 Cock Lovers". Sven was wearing a chicken costume. Eugene had a golden trophy full of silver coins. Feathers and tiny blood stains were on their shirts.

"Did you have fun Kristoff?" asked Anna.

Kristoff was about to open the side of his mouth to respond, when Sven started talking.

"There's really nothing like the naked thrill of bloodsport to liven a life. It is the Dionysian impulse bursting from the ether to rend our ordinary ways asunder, revealing the true arbitrariness of society and law. Blood is the rewriting of law and the reforging of soul," said Sven.

"Elsa! I... uhhh... didn't know you did a Sven voice," said Anna.

"I don't," replied Elsa. "What are you talking about?"

"The horrors of war are enough to splinter even the most rational mind. The true evils of the thing must be forced into an alternate persona. It's simple psycho- I LOVE CARROTS NOM NOM NOM NOM MMMMMM SO GOOD KRISTOFF GIVE ME A HUG," said Sven.

Kristoff hugged Sven. Eugene stared at Elsa for a moment, then muttered something about crazy bitches and kept walking. They came to a junction, and again the men and women parted ways.

Finally, Rapunzel opened a door and they arrived at their destination. There was a tub of meat and a bucket full of sticks there. Rapunzel looked at them expectantly.

"What am I looking at?" asked Elsa.

"Well, you've got the meat and you..." said Rapunzel, stopping halfway through her sentence.

An awkward silence hung for the next ten seconds.

"And you what?" asked Elsa.

"Shhh... you have to let the suspense build," replied Punzie.

"Okay... what...?"

"Shhh..."

"Uhhh..."

"Shhhh..."

"..."

"Sussspppeeeeeeennnnseeeeee."

"I'm thoroughly suspended now."

"You take the meat... and you put it on a STICK! Amazing, right?"

"My mind has been blown. Wow. How do you even do that?"

"It's like wizard magic."

"Truly a marvel of our times. Can I take a guess?"

"Sure."

"You take the meat from the bin and you poke the stick through."

"Wow! Anna was right about you being a genius!"

"Thanks?"

For the next hour, they stuck bits of meat onto sticks. Every five minutes, Rapunzel would stop, stand up, and squeal with delight. Anna somehow managed to make a stick into a circle, and the meat into a tiny meatman, which is like a snowman but bloodier and more unsanitary. Elsa wondered if she had died back at Waterloo. Was this Purgatory?

At the end of the hour, Eugene and Kristoff walked in. More accurately, Eugenetoff walked in. The two were slathered head to toe in a mixture of maple syrup, bits of lint, and coconut shavings, and Kristoff was upside down and glued to Eugene's back. Eugene told everyone not to ask. Elsa took his advice.

That night, Anna dreamed of a bomb dropping on a giant snail. It burst into a fireball brighter than a thousand suns, a vision of death and the destruction of worlds. The snail survived.


	95. Make the Clock Reverse: Interlude

"_And if anyone's name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire."_

"_Or will you go to your knees in fear?" - The Protomen_

"Listen to me, son... you must be happy. Not for my sake, but for the sake of Corona. When you are happy, no one can defeat you. Who can hate the happy? Their hearts will naturally be drawn to sympathy, or to fear. If their dreams are shattered, then their dreams will fall into the dark crevices of their heart, and when they see your happiness, it will remind them of their dreams, those now abandoned and vengeful dreams. They will wonder what kind of a man can smile while driving their sword into a heart, and they will fear and flee. If there is love in their hearts, they will find it hard to oppose you if they see love in your eyes. Either way, they are cleaved from their allies. Divide and conquer! If you are always happy, the world cannot make you fearful, for the happy man is not fearful. If the world cannot defeat you, then you will defeat it! If you are happy, you can store the fear the world attempts to give you, and unleash it back on your foes! This is the power of happiness! Happiness makes the will uncrushable! It is as mighty as any army!"

But her son listened without comprehension, and Rapunzel saw the emptiness in his eyes.

She seized the globus cruciger sitting beside her bed and began to chant, all the crowns of Europe glittering in its reflection.

"Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine, make the clock reverse, bring back what once was..."

Her arm went slack and dropped. The globe dropped to the ground and rolled away with a clatter. The sound was drowning out by the weeping of friends and family. And these faces were only graven ashes, for their light had only been the reflection of the now dark sun.

The last ray of sunshine was now dead.

A storm blew over Europe.

The riders readied their steeds.

The world, like a clock, was locked into a cycle recurring, and no mortal hand could stay its course.

Heal what has been hurt, change the fates' design, save what has been lost, bring back what was once was mine.

What once was mine.

**END OF INTERLUDE**


	96. MOUNT VESUVIUS: PART TWO

Riley looked at Mount Vesuvius in the bitter orange of sunset. The radio beside him crackled with life.

"And in other news... corn prices reach new highs... tensions continue to rise in Africa as Chinese and French interests compete... rare earth deposits now critically depleted... NASA announces new helium mining colony on the moon... militia continues to hold the Westfield, Downing Street considering use of anti-tank weapons... "

The stories faded in and out of his mind as he chewed the reheated Salisbury steak. Mount Vesuvius stood in solemn judgment.

"I don't want war. Who really does? I just want to build things. Had legos as a kid, y'all know that was a real good time. When I grew up, figured I'd keep going. So I did. Went to Georgia Tech. Good school, I still donate. I don't... don't want war. I just want the threat of war. It's a damn shame, but nobody cares about building when they're not in danger. Look at early NASA just a decade or two ago. They were gonna kill it. Were... gonna... kill it... You know what gets the money? Sputnik. Fear of war. But... I don't want war. I just want to build things. Larger things, bigger things, better things. But when war comes, then I see what I'm really building for. And it's a damn ugly thing, I reckon. But what was I to do? Two old and lonely roads, one open one closed, and a builder passed I. And that's about it," he had said.

And Riley had listened, and then he boarded the train.

Beneath the mountain was ancient Pompeii, a city of storied excellence, ruins steeped with the wisdom of the ancients.

The wisdom of the ancients is the same tired bullshit we spout today. Much of Shakespare is bawdy and lewd. Only the mystic cloak of age gives it a transcendental weightiness. But that bawdiness is important. Those Pompeii ruins are important.

It reminds us that the ancients were just like us. It is often said that history is the product of great men, and it is often said that it is the product of great trends. But these are just two readily identifiable causes, tiny dots of order in a sea of blackness. All too often, history is a series of swallowed lies, misremembered facts, convoluted plans that don't quite pan out, incompetence, fragile egos and overinflated emotion, interpersonal drama, stupid mistakes, stupider assumptions, dumb luck, and wild guesses. It is easy to imagine some powerful and wise Prometheus guiding the river of time, but if there is, his careful toil is often overwritten by fools running into each other and pissing in the water. People are greedy, stupid, short-sighted, incompetent as a rule, and narcissistic. Every act of heroism is outnumbered a thousand times over by cowardice, such that one is the rule and something to be planned for, and the other is the stuff of legend.

And yet this is their strength. History is full of monstrosities and inhumanities. Indeed, many of its greatest heroes are also its greatest monsters. The past is full of tiny petty men living tiny petty lives. The fact that this is recognized, however, is significant! Humanity has the ability to conceive of perfection. We have already improved the world so much. Mankind fell from grace once, and it saw God as it fell. The hunter-gatherer idyll was shattered, never to return. And yet mankind endured, and not only endured, but prospered! It clawed its way back to those living standards, then improved upon them. It saw Paradise Lost, and decided to build a better Paradise. And people still complain. This is because they have mankind's inexhaustible ambition. The complainers will never be satisfied because every human being has an image of perfection within, because everything can always improve. That is mankind's strength. And so they are right to complain, for mankind will always reach ahead and strive towards an unreachable perfection, for that is mankind's nature. Perfection is impossible. But the world can come as close to perfection as is possible, and time and time again, mankind manages to approximate that best possible situation.

When we tell stories of monstrosities, we recognize their terrible and cruel nature. But the fact remains that mankind has always won and not suffered its own doom. It continues to build, to strive onwards and upwards. When we tell stories of monsters, we know that one day, they fall and never rise again. Smallpox has been destroyed. HIV was reduced from a death sentence to a chronic condition, and progress continues on it. Once, cancer was certain death. Starvation and poverty yield to the irresistible logic of industry and science. Houses grow more comfortable, and deserts and mountains are made into homes as comfortable as any green-grass meadow. History is littered with great tragedies, and yet most people would be spared by them. Most people lived their lives, smiling, crying, and hating, just as we do. Do not mourn that you do not live in exciting times, for times were not exciting for most even in hectic eras. If you wish excitement, chase it! It is within your power. When we tell stories of our vices, we recognize that they will one day be conquered, if they are not already. When we tell stories of our virtues, we recognize our progress on an endless journey towards perfection. It will never be reached, but we will still try. We try because humanity is noble. We try because humans are essentially good.

There is no need to tell Humanity, Fuck Yeah! stories because every story is a Humanity, Fuck Yeah! story.

If you despair, it is because you are strong. If you are sad and miserable, it is because you are strong. John Stuart Mill said that the noble character may suffer, but his suffering will lead to a greater happiness. You despair because you have hope. Hope is at the bottom of every Pandora's box. If you are despairing or disappointed, it is because you can implicitly imagine a better future, which means that hope still lives within you. We are all the noble sufferers. Mankind, collectively, suffers, but this is also the source of Mankind's collective happiness. Be sad. Be happy. Either way, you are strong. Man does not break. It builds. Never give up, never surrender.

I dreamed that life was worth living. I didn't have to wish upon a star for it. It was already true.

I believe in happy endings. So should you.

**BEGINNING OF PART TWO**

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**Author Notes: **I believe in happy endings. So should you.


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